Wondering Why We're Here
by RenaRoo
Summary: A collection of stories inspired by prompts and memes sent to me for the Red vs Blue universe. [Saturday Updates]
1. Grimmons: Please Don't Do This

I have been taking small prompts and filling them for various fandoms for a while now on tumblr and AO3, little ficlets that were too small to really justify posting on their own. So I'm going to try to keep up with them on this account now too!

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter One: Grimmons: "Please Don't Do This"

"Please don't do this."

The look on Grif's face was… well, it was certainly a look Donut hadn't seen the man have before. And _please_ was certainly something Donut hadn't _heard_ from Grif before unless he was being forced by Sarge. Or humiliation.

"I'm doing this for your own good, the message _must_ be aired," Donut said, curling more against the wall so if Grif actually tried to reach over the locker he still couldn't grab Donut's leg.

"No, it really fucking doesn't!" Grif snapped.

"You confided in me because you wanted my romantic wisdom!" Donut defended. "Continue to have that trust now."

"One, it wasn't confiding, it was drunk blathering," Grif began listing off on his fingers. "Two, I don't trust you _because_ of things like this. And because I hate you. Three, _give me my goddamn phone!"_

"You're the one that poured your soul out in text form, Grif!" Donut cried, shuffling closer to the wall as Grif took the unprecedented step of actually taking a step toward him. "I'm only doing this for your own good!"

"If _drunk_ me was smart enough to not send it, _what the fuck makes you think rational me wants to send it!?"_ Grif screamed, actually pressing against the locker and reaching up. "Give me the phone, Donut!"

"NO!" Donut cried out. He let out a wail as Grif's fingers actually brushed against his leg. "I have to send it! It's for _LOVE!"  
_

"NO IT'S NOT!" Grif roared back.

They both paused as they heard the locker room door open. They looked to Simmons staring at them, hands already in the air.

"What the fuck are you two doing!?" he demanded.

Grif could not have been any redder in the face, so Donut didn't feel even slightly bad when Simmon's phone went off in his pocket and the third Red Team member looked down to it.

"Goddammit, Donut."


	2. Yorkalina: Thunderstorms

For ephemeraltea during the Ship Prompt Meme

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Two: Yorkalina: Thunderstorms

York pulled over, stopped the car, turned completely in his seat, and stared at her like she had asked him if he was King Tut. Carolina, for her effort, was still stoic as she looked ahead, until she begun to unbuckle and reach for the door.

With his jaw hanging open in that way that meant – for truly a rare occasion – he was left speechless, York turned his head to follow her movements.

"Wait wait wait," he finally got out, beginning to unbuckle, too. "We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the _rain?"_

"Did I stutter, Agent York?" Carolina asked, opening the door and stepping out into the crackling storm.

"I guess not," he responded before following suit, immediately hugging his arms around himself. "I just don't see why!" he yelled over the storm.

Carolina turned to him. "When's the last time you felt rain?"

"WHAT?"

She groaned, cupped her hands around her mouth, and yelled, "When. Is. The last time. You. Felt rain!?"

"Haven't thought about it!" he yelled.

Lightning cracked through the sky in the distance, making the special ops locksmith leap slightly. He scooted around the car to join her.

Carolina breathed in the smell of rain. It was so much stronger than she remembered it.

"Sometimes I get tired of space," she told him. "Sometimes I just… remember what it's like to feel like you're on solid ground."

She could feel him slip around behind her, wrap them both in his jacket. He laughed warmly into the back of her head.

"I'm happy to just keep my rock with me," he whispered into her hair.


	3. Tuckington: I'm Terrified

For goodluckdetective during the Ship Prompt Meme

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Three: Tuckington: I'm Terrified

Tucker threw his helmet against the training room wall, hardly flinching at how much sweat followed the carry through. It smacks hard enough to dent the helmet, which was about when the rest of the Reds and Blues slowly begun to file away from the training room. Save Caboose, who needed Donut looping arms with him and half-dragging the soldier out.

The aqua marine's eyes were fiery, furious. Honestly, Wash hadn't seen Tucker so upset since they had left Crash Site Bravo.

"Very mature, Tucker," Wash snapped, every word scathing.

"Fuck. You," Tucker snarled through his teeth. "I am _sick_ of how hard you're riding me in front of everyone! Stop undermining me. _Stop_ snapping off at every wrong breath I take while Grif and Simmons yolk it up."

Wash stepped more into Tucker's space, eyes narrowing. "Pick up your helmet."

"No!" Tucker snapped.

"Pick. It. _Up,_ Captain Tucker," Wash said lowly.

"Hey, here's an idea, if you're so worried about it, why don't _you_ pick it up!" Tucker screamed back, raising his hands above him. "In fact, why don't _you_ do all these goddamn drills instead of me. I've already proved I can take care of myself, Wash. I don't _need_ your approval."

"This isn't about approval, _Lavernius_ ," Wash hissed back. "This is about survival. I am making sure that we can all follow orders and not lose each other over stupid miscommunications again. _Does that sound alright to you?"_

 _"No!_ It doesn't!" Tucker roared. "Because you don't treat me the same as everyone else. And I don't mean in the way that you don't treat Caboose the same. I mean you're such a fucking _hardass_ with me that I don't even feel like I can breathe. I thought we were _done_ with this part. But apparently you just like me being forced to kiss your ass."

"That's not _remotely_ the case," Wash snapped back.

"Oh, isn't it?" Tucker laughed almost hysterically. "Then riddle me this, Wash-man, what the _fuck_ is your problem with me then!?"

Before Wash could even think his response through, he threw up his arms. "I think I'm in love with you!"

It came out so fast that at first, Wash wasn't even sure he _had_ said it. He simply looked at the way that Tucker's face dropped into something… unreadable, shocked. It was too late to take back.

Screwing his eyes shut, Wash lowered his head, shook from head to toe. "I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified," he clarified. "I'm terrified because it's always the people I love the most… who… who don't make it back. And Tucker… I can't survive you."


	4. Sharkface: Burning Anger

I've been having a lot of Sharkface feels lately. I'm not sure what to do with that. ALSO EPISODE 16 SPOILERS. can't emphasize that enough.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Four: Sharkface: Burning Anger

It is never going to be about finding peace.

There is a haunted look in Carolina, an exasperation, an understanding that he doesn't care about, isn't interested in at all. She has a working knowledge of this truth, which makes her refusal of it all the more infuriating.

He hates her. He hates what she's done.

Whether or not he should hate what it's allowed him to become is not up for thought today. Will never be up for thought.

Burn her. He wants to _burn her.  
_

Fire is a painful, dangerous thing, and no one knows it better than him.

In a blink, he could kill her. Even if it's not reality, even if he can't, he knows that the way he's trying isn't the "right" way to get things done.

He's trained better than that, but his training isn't going to help him satisfy that desire to kill her deep down in his soul now. It's the only motivation he has, the only thirst he can't quench.

If anything, all he wants from her in the moments leading up to the big burn is to clearly see her fear.

And fear isn't something she's giving him.

It's pity.

When he thinks he couldn't hate her more, she looks at him, tries to reason with him, pities him, and tries to act like she can give him some sort of release from this rage.

She's wrong. She has to be wrong.

He can't be burning with all this hate for nothing.

Is he?


	5. Grimmons: Wanna Dance?

Grimmons. It's time for celebration on Chorus and Simmons gets some courage.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Five: Grimmons: Wanna Dance?

"So, back to the comparison to our lives in space and _Star Wars_ …"

Grif looked around, watching the celebration with as much apathy as he could muster. It was hard to maintain his image when, after everything was said and done, after they were finally "done" and the day was saved, there was entirely _so much_ to be excited and happy about.

But someone had to do it, and sat up on one of the mess hall tables, third beer in his hand, Grif supposed he very well could be _that_ guy again.

"Are you comparing this," Grif began, with a wave of his hand to the ongoing excitement and cheering, "to the end of _Return of the Jedi?"_

"Yes, minus Ewoks," Simmons responded, shoulders forward as he leaned toward the edge of the table. His legs kicked a little mindlessly as he watched Chorus' festivities from afar. as they always did.

"Thank god."

Simmons' bottom lip puffed out some as he looked at Grif. "I like the Ewoks."

"You're, like, the _ultimate_ nerd," Grif responded with a snort into his can. "But yes, Simmons, I would completely agree that our lives continue to prove to be _Star Wars._ But less star fights."

That seemed to make Simmons go quiet for a bit. Grif could only assume it was because he found their agreement to be satisfactory for once, but he then noticed that Simmons was looking at him rather directly.

Grif raised an eyebrow and continued sipping on his drink. "What?"

"There's music playing," Simmons pointed out.

When nothing immediately followed, Grif rubbed his face and laughed. "Very good, Simmons!" he replied. "I can see you've brought your keen abilities of observation with you all this way. Is there anything else you'd like to point out?"

"No. _Asshole,"_ Simmons returned, running a hand through his too long hair. "I just. I was wondering."

"Yes?"

The maroon space marine chewed on the inside of his cheek for a bit, apparently attempting (and failing) to keep Grif in suspense, before finally letting out with, "Wanna dance?"

For a moment, Grif just stared, then he cocked his head to the side. "Excuse?"

"Do you want to dance?" Simmons reiterated.

"When have I _ever_ seemed like someone who danced?" Grif asked blankly.

"That time Sarge made you 'tap dance.'"

"By shooting at my feet, Simmons," Grif responded before finishing his beer. He roughly rubbed his mouth with his sleeve. "Are you being serious right now?"

"Of course I am! Why would I ask something this awkward if I wasn't supposed to mean it?" Simmons demanded.

"Well," Grif responded, pushing off the table and turning around to offer Simmons a hand. "You _are_ pretty goddamn awkward. But hey, I'm drunk enough, why not dance?"


	6. Grimmons: Looking Good

Grimmons. Grif and Simmons prepare for a night out

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Six: Grimmons: Looking Good

It had long been past "fashionably late" but Simmons was still somehow managing to sit on one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs by the window just by the exit of the barracks. It was broken and leaned to the left, thus leading to the part cyborg to lean to the right as a counter balance.

He had been that way for half an hour and his asscheeks were beginning to feel more than a little uneven.

"Goddammit, Grif," Simmons groaned as he checked his phone for the time.

He should have known it was going to go this way. In hindsight, he was wondering why he _ever_ expected Grif to not be late for things.

Even just going to the bar for drinks was like pulling teeth. Doing stuff _for_ Grif was pulling teeth. The man was incorrigible.

Simmons tapped on his knee a few times, listening to the hollow clink of metal on metal, when he could finally hear Grif coming down the hall – his stance was so obvious. He turned his head and began to make a comment about tardiness when he felt his throat catch a bit.

Grif seemed a little caught off guard by Simmons' reaction (or lack thereof, really) but offered no real explanation for himself. He scratched at his ear and then whipped back at his obviously wet hair.

Showered and well groomed Grif, especially just after the end of a planet wide war, was a rare sight to see.

"Uh, you doing something with the jaw you've got on the floor there, Simmons?" Grif asked, eyebrows knitted together.

Simmons rubbed at his own neck. "Heh. Yeah. I mean. Wow, Grif. I mean. Damn. You clean up good."

Immediately, the other Red bristled. "What is that? Sarcasm?"

"No! It's a compliment!" Simmons sputtered, standing up for emphasis. "I mean. Really! You clean up good. I appreciate it."

Looking at him for a long minute, Grif put his hands on his hips. "You're putting me on. Literally all I did was shower, throw on cargo pants and a button up shirt. Incorrectly buttoned. On purpose. To annoy you."

"I'm not the one with OCD, how can you stand that?"

"I'm committed to my sense of humor," Grif huffed before looking down and fixing his shirt. "You're ruining the moment, Simmons."

"Well I'm sorry I appreciate you looking nice for once," Simmons continued, feeling truly affronted himself.

"Good! You should be!"


	7. Grimmons: Relationship Problems

Grimmons. During a very awkward breakfast, Donut smells blood

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Seven: Grimmons: Relationship Problems

Donut sat on the other side of the table, greedily taking as much oatmeal into his mouth as possible without daring to look down from Grif or Simmons. As usual when it came to relationship problems, Donut could smell blood, and he could manage to make it feel like he was somehow sitting between them even from the other side of the room.

Simmons was staring down at his gruel, fork in one hand and spoon in the other, but even beyond his platter not looking appetizing, he felt like he couldn't stand to eat anything.

Grif had his shoulders turned just enough to seem like he was pointed the other way, but he didn't share the same appetite woes.

Well, Simmons thought, good for him.

When Donut finished his own breakfast, he quietly sat down his utensils, stretched a bit, and then put his elbows on the table, leaning forward with his eyes predatory just above his crossed fingers.

"So," Donut began.

"Don't you fucking dare," Grif snapped, not minding at all that his mouth was partially full. He waved a gross fork at their teammate. "I swear to god, Donut, don't you even _start–"_

"I don't even know what happened!" Donut defended.

"Exactly. Your input's not necessary," Grif snapped.

Simmons felt like he was about ready to pop, though. Ignoring Donut, he turned in his seat, glaring at Grif. His face felt like it was burning (and probably looked the part as well). "How long were you standing there!?"

The orange soldier stopped, swore under his breath, then turned his head just enough to give Simmons the stinkeye. "You're going to start shit now? In front of him?"

Donut looked positively delighted.

"Answer the question, Grif!"

Grif threw up his hands dramatically. "Long enough to know I'm apparently not satisfying something there, Simmons!"

"Sometimes you just have to… Oh, shut up. Like you don't…" Simmons felt so flustered even breaching the subject he had to cover his face and release a long string of "fuck fuck fuck fuck". All the embarrassment he thought he had swallowed down earlier that morning was working its way back up. "I just. You were taking so long in the shower–"

"My own room, Simmons, you think about that for a minute," Grif said almost mournfully. "Nowhere is safe from you. Nothing is sacred to you. You're an animal."

"My mom used to tell me it'd make me go blind," Simmons muttered.

"She's half right, it made _me_ almost go blind," Grif huffed.

They sat there for a moment, everything aired out and yet nothing at all relieved.

Donut leaned forward, stage whispering. "Wait. So Simmons was masturbating?"

"DONUT!"


	8. Tuckington: Forget and Forgive

Tuckington. Tucker is a bit tired of Blue Team luck

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Eight: Tuckington: Forget and Forgive

Nothing was ever simple for them. Not that it was any simpler for the Reds or anything, but the comfort Red Team seemed to forget they always had was the near guarantee that they would all return from a mission at the end of the day.

Tucker would rather be dead than Red if you asked him point blank, but sometimes getting reminded of Blue Team tradition left him feeling more than a little cold.

So when the away team was pulling in with reported injuries, Tucker almost _expected_ it when Wash turned out to be one of them.

He leered at Carolina and Church as they pulled in on a Mongoose, hackles raised, fists clenched. "What the fuck happened!?" Tucker demanded.

"Car," Carolina growled, kicking the vehicle into park before jumping out. "He was fine until he bumped his head."

"How hard!?" Tucker demanded, knowing that raising his own voice was just going to cause Carolina to puff up more defensively. He was too angry to really find himself caring, though.

"Hard enough to knock him out, he's fine, Tucker," Church barked back. His defensiveness of Carolina was a whole _other_ issue that Tucker didn't have the patience for at the moment.

"It wasn't supposed to be a big deal!" Tucker reminded them, finger pointing accusingly. "You promised me everything would be fine."

"It didn't go as expected," Carolina said in a tone that _very much_ made it sound as though it was meant to be the final word, but Tucker could give less of a fuck if she wanted the conversation to end her way. Wash was _hurt.  
_

"Wash isn't supposed to take hits to the head!" Tucker reminded them furiously. "Doctor Grey said he wasn't–" Tucker snapped his mouth shut as he saw none other than the doctor rushing off the newly arrived transport, Washington on the gurney being pushed carefully alongside her.

Aggravated, he pushed past Carolina and Church, ignoring the way Carolina looked like she was going to be roasting him alive later, and grabbed onto Doctor Grey's shoulder.

"Not now, Captain Tucker!" Doctor Grey said, batting his hand off without so much as looking at him.

"Wait, Doctor Grey! Just…" Tucker stopped short, feeling like his chest was being squeezed. "Promise me you won't let anything happen to him."

As the medics pushed Wash on toward the E.R., Doctor Grey paused, looking over her shoulder at Tucker. "Of course I won't, silly," she said. "I'm Doctor Grey! And my patients are priority number one!"

Tucker watched as they disappeared into the tent and felt strangely numb and useless. He had a lot of questions and concerns.

Carolina and Church stepped up beside him.

"I've thought about it," Carolina said stiffly, arms crossed, "I won't dish out the punishment until _after_ we're sure Wash is up and awake."

"That's comforting," Tucker responded lowly.


	9. Chex: A Couple of Ghosts

Chex. Alpha and Beta again

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Nine: Chex: A Couple of Ghosts

If Agent Washington's brain had been ten ways to fucked, the Meta's was like an inferno. There were so many voices, but just one line of thought – _it's him it's him the Alpha it's him father creator Alpha  
_

Church wasn't sure what to make of any of it, so he just didn't. He had maybe a minute – most likely less – to do what he was supposed to.

Hell, he probably had longer unless he believed the horseshit that Freelancer was feeding him about AI and past lives and torture (he believed it, deep down he knew it, he forgot it, he buried it). The only certainty he really cared about was–

"You're just always chasing me down rabbit holes, aren't you, Church?"

The moment he heard her, the moment he could recognize that voice, he had the strength to push every dissenting voice, every ghostly grasping for his attention. He put away the broken pieces of the Meta and stood face to face with her.

"Tex," he breathed. "You're… you're alive."

"Mm, no, not really," she said in that very flippant, very Tex way. "But, hey, you already knew that by now, right. So much for protecting you from your dumb self."

"I thought I'd lost you this time," he said, feeling heavy in his chest even as he came near her. "I… I think that was the worst part. Knowing it was Omega that was pushing you to do that shitty stuff."

"I had a hand in it," she reminded him sharply. "But I'm curious, Church. Are you ready to admit why you felt so guilty about Omega? Or do I have to hold your hand through that revelation, too?"

Church's face dropped, he looked down to his hands – the whispers of the Meta were crawling through them. Dissolving away the armor and plating, looking more and more like words and numbers – like code. He looked back to her. She wasn't in armor either – a faint black glow behind her eyes.

"Because it was me," he admitted, a little choked up. "It was always me… it was me hurting you… and I knew it… but I couldn't…" He looked down, dropping to his knees even as the ground beneath them disappeared. Zeroes and ones. Patterns. Equations. Probabilities. Broken chances. Theories. "I'm so sorry."

It was him.

He wasn't a ghost.

He was the Alpha.

And she…

Tex was something else. She was Beta. He didn't make her, she…

She was an uncontrollable variable that was just as much a part of his existence as any fragment. Maybe more so. She was there when he was still whole. She–

She deserved better.

"I'm sorry," he choked again, roughly rubbing at his face. "Now I just look the part of the mess I made, huh?"

"Oh, Church," she sighed, dropping down beside him. "Don't be like that. You know, it's okay to cry. We're about to get deleted after all."

"I'm sorry," he muttered again.


	10. Grimmons: Bring You Home

Grimmons. Grif has a spontaneous idea, for the worst.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Ten: Grimmons: Bring You Home

The only thing Grif ever really learned from the army was that mornings, specifically _bright_ mornings, were awful without exception. If anything the one positive brought to mornings was that he had an excuse to roll over and turn _one_ sleep into _two_ sleeps, meaning there was an opportunity to achieve _infinite_ sleeps.

And that would be the most wonderful idea ever. Of all time.

Unfortunately, it'd been a decade later and he was still managing to share a barrack with Simmons.

Who, for some reason, _liked_ waking up in the morning.

Grif had thought that being ship wrecked and stuck in yet _another_ goddamn box canyon would at least afford him some sleep. But, no, it got him Simmons pulling the tarp down and letting the sun and some leftover dew from the tarp smack him in the face instead.

Flailing, Grif hit the floor. "Simmons!"

"Whoops," the asshole said without _any_ sort of inflection that made it sound believable. "Guess I'm not the only one up to run maintenance on Red Base now. Look at that."

"You could have asked," Grif reminded him darkly, flattening out on the floor and letting his eyes slip closed.

"No, because then you wouldn't have even got… up – I don't believe this. You're snoring. You're snoring _before_ you're asleep," Simmons whined before stomping over to him. "Grif! Get the fuck up!"

"I slept through a time warp once, you can't even begin to challenge my sleep quota, Simmons," Grif responded in a hum.

"It wasn't actual time travel, lard ass, now get off the floor unless you feel like cleaning it with your– you know what, let's just go straight for that," Simmons snapped before stomping off.

He stomped back in a few moments later, throwing what seemed to be a toothbrush at Grif's face, but soon took off again. Which lead to a few blissful minutes where, once more, infinite sleep seemed attainable again.

Grif saw a lot of things in his sleep, stuff that might have seemed mundane or boring to dream about to others. But Grif never felt more soothed than to feel the sand between his toes again, smelling home, seeing Kai's sparkling smile, laughing at Simmons' lobster of a sunburn. Simmons… it'd never occurred to Grif before how much sense it made to see Simmons at home, showing him Hawaii before.

It was nice, it was something he genuinely wanted.

He's so taken aback by the fact that he can barely contain his jump as he's smacked on the stomach and sent whirling into reality, facing a much less sunburned, much angrier looking Simmons sitting on the floor beside him.

"You're the worst," Simmons grunted before beginning to get up with an aggravated sigh

Not thinking straight, Grif immediately grabbed Simmons' hand, pulling him back down to the yelp of surprise to his teammate.

"GRIIIIIIIF!" Simmon growled from the floor.

"I think you should come to Hawaii with me," Grif blubbered out all at once. It honestly didn't even feel like he was the one saying it, but like someone else entirely was in control of the wheel.

"What? Why?" Simmons asked, sounding aggravated. "I mean, first off we would have to get off this… rock in the middle of who knows where. Which is still a tall order. Second off, you said one of the advantages of going home to Earth was that once you were in Hawaii, and I _quote_ , 'I won't have to see any of you fuckers again.'"

Feeling defensive, Grif snapped out, "Yeah, well maybe I don't want to see most of them again. I just. It's… they're not you."

Simmons stared at him for a moment and then began to get off the floor and dust his armor off. Grif rolled over to his knees, feeling a nauseating panic raise in his chest.

"Wait, I'm sorry, this is all weird," Grif babbled. "I'm sleep drunk. Or drunk. Or sleepy. I might be all those things."

"Don't apologize. That's not the point," Simmons responded, his voice strangely void of emotion. "Did you mean it?"

"Depends what part of it," Grif said, raising his eyebrows carefully. When Simmons rolled his eyes and started toward the door, Grif groaned and ran a thick hand through his hair. "Alright! Jesus. I meant it. I… don't want to lose my best friend when we get back. If. What the fuck ever."

Simmons leaned on the doorframe a bit, didn't look back. He just visibly heaved a sigh before nodding back to Grif. "Just friends?"

"Oh," Grif blinked. "Well. I guess just for now."

There was an uncomfortable pause before Simmons left. Grif collapsed to the ground again, cover his eyes and groaning. He was an idiot. _Such_ an idiot.

But… this might have been good.


	11. Tuckington: Your Opinion

Tuckington. Tucker returns from an away mission and needs some good advice.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Eleven: Tuckington: Your Opinion

There was an entire squadron of bright faced, scared soldiers who needed training and confidence boosting, and prioritizing them over one of his own men – one of his own men who had long outgrown the need for a leader when he became his own captain, whether he wanted to admit it or not – should have been a simple enough decision.

But Washington was seldom allowed _simple_ decisions in his life and was quick to sigh, bark out a few orders, and start over to the sidelines where Tucker was waiting on him.

"Do you have a minute?" Tucker asked, like there was ever a time before where Wash had turned him around.

"Typically not in the middle of training, no," Wash replied honestly. "But you've been with Carolina and Sarge for a week, so I think I can spare some time." Then, because there was always that anxiety at the back of his mind, added, "Everything's… _alright_ with your mission, right?"

Tucker shrugged, eyes far from concentrated on any mission he had just returned from. "It was fine. Church got annoying but, eh, that's what he does."

"You two aren't cat fighting again, are you?" Wash pressed.

"It's not a cat fight, we're fine, he just…" Tucker's brows knit together and he lowers his head, swears a few times. "I had it, Wash. I _had_ it – there were two of them in my sights, I had perfect cover, it would've taken _just a second_ to duck out of it and snipe the fuck out of them, and then…" He threw his hands up dramatically before quickly letting them drop to his sides with a smack, head shaking. "Carolina swooped in and took them out – she didn't even have sights on them, she was on the complete other side of our cover, Sarge was at her back, and Church – for no good goddamn reason – turned her around and put her on _my_ guys!"

Wash studied Tucker a bit, looked over his shoulder to check on the Chorus soldiers, "PICK UP THE PACE!" he snapped off, then turned his attention back on Tucker. It wasn't the time for a petty 'bitching session' as Tucker loved to call them, but, well, for Tucker Wash was willing to make time.

"Listen, Tucker, I'm sure you're frustrated, and it feels like no one's noticed all the hard work and the progress you've made in the last year," Wash said, watching as Tucker slumped onto the nearest bench, shaking his head. "But I promise you, everyone sees how far you've come. Everyone's _really_ impressed with how far you've come. And to be fair to Carolina and Epsilon… well, maybe it wasn't anything to do with you. I don't know if you've noticed, but Carolina isn't exactly _subtle_ about dominating on a battlefield. It's what she does. For better or worse."

"No, it was Church," Tucker glowered. "I know it."

"So you're upset because your friend is looking out for you?" Wash asked, raising a brow.

"No, I'm upset because he doesn't believe I can take care of myself!" Tucker snapped off before taking a deep breath. "That he doesn't think I could take care of everyone else either. I mean. _Jesus._ I can! I know I can…"

Except the more it went on, the less Tucker sounded like he believed his words. He looked to Wash. "Right?"

Washington rubbed at his neck. "I don't know what comfort my opinion on the matter is, Tucker. I'm not Church. But… yeah. Of course you can. I've never doubted you could do what you've been showing us the last few months. I've never doubted that you can even do _more._ It's… Well, it's why I push you."

There was a moment of silence where Tucker continued to stare at the floor and Wash become concerned that, once again, none of his words were really reaching Tucker's ears when the marine looked back at him, face in a firm scowl.

"What are you talking about? Of _course_ your opinion matters."

Rubbing at his face, Tucker exhaled through his nose. "Was that all you took from that–"

"No, but listen, Wash, enough with the self-depreciating bullshit," Tucker growled out. "Church is an asshole, and yeah maybe I care way too much about how he feels about this stuff, but the difference between _you_ and Church is that when Church was leader of Blue Team, he didn't exactly train us to do anything. He was probably one of the worst goddamn soldiers in the canyon and yet he had to be the one to do everything, take the blame for everything… I never _had_ to be a soldier. And fuck if it didn't almost get me killed. A _lot._ But when it comes to training and actually _doing_ this soldier bullshit I should have been doing from the beginning… of course its your opinion that matters. I mean… _you_ trained me. And believed in me." He looked to his helmet, spun it around a few times in his hands. "I let you down… how am I supposed to forgive myself for that?"

Every muscle in Wash's body felt taut, frozen yet strained. He looked down at Tucker, _seriously_ studied his face, his shoulders, the lines of sleeplessness and worry drawn around his eyes and mouth, and felt…

Wash honestly didn't know _how_ to feel about Tucker at that moment.

He reached forward instead, put a steady hand on Tucker's shoulder and watched as his dark eyes turned back onto Wash.

"You don't have to worry about that, Tucker," Wash said softly. "You've _never_ let me down. I don't think you ever will."


	12. Grimmons: Apology Pizza

Grimmons. Simmons should have spoke up

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twelve: Grimmons: Apology Pizza

The thing was, he _knew_ it was a shitty thing to not say anything about. He _knew_ that everyone shrinking back in shock at the plain _visceral_ behind Doc's words was not nearly enough compared to if someone had actually _done_ something.

Especially him. He could have done something. _Should_ have done something. But in his non-defense, Simmons was just gasping an "oh, fuck" with everyone else before turning eyes on Grif for the explosion sure to ensue.

It didn't ensue. Grif…

Well, Grif folded in on himself.

"It was a nice circus."

And for most of them, that was pretty much the end of it. So much for a counseling session, move on to the next tactic, Doc. Perhaps the speaking ball would work out better for everyone.

But it wasn't over, it wasn't over for Grif and, judging by that look Grif gave Simmons, it wasn't over for Simmons either. Because, well, he _should_ have been able to say something. Him, of all people, should have been able to say something even when there was nothing for anyone else to say.

Simmons had nothing, and he wasn't surprised at all as their failed counseling session ended, everyone started their ways out, and Simmons' hand on Grif's shoulder was quickly brushed aside and forgotten.

He took a deep breath, sighed it out, and got to work.

He might not have had Grif's experience or stealth with breaking into the kitchen, but he did have a reputation for sticking to rules, which made it almost too easy to bypass all personnel and head straight to the kitchen for himself.

By the time he was done, night was settling and there wasn't a light on in Grif's room, but Simmons knew well enough to knock anyway and not be surprised when the door flung open.

Grif glared at him but, for once, there was no smart remark, just a disappointed glare given by glassy red eyes.

Simmons held up his offering. "This is an apology pizza. Please take it or I will start crying right here."

For a moment, Grif didn't move one way or the other then, rather swiftly, he grabbed the platter and shut the door. Simmons was so stunned he didn't even lower his hand, just staring in horror at what had happened.

Then the door opened and Grif, with half a slice in his mouth, waved him in.

"What, you had to taste test it to determine if you'd take my apology or not!?" Simmons demanded, shutting the door behind him as he entered.

"Had to make sure you didn't half ass it," Grif responded. "By the way, it's accepted, you asshole. But try sticking up for me next time."


	13. Grimmons: Talking About Squads

Grimmons. Grif is getting a little tired of hearing about Simmons' squad

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirteen: Grimmons: Talking About Squads

It wasn't that Grif didn't already acknowledge that Simmons was the social equivalent of a genuine lost cause that was the problem. Grif had known within _minutes_ of talking to the man in Basic that there wasn't much in the way of social skills there.

Grif wasn't exactly a social butterfly himself. He didn't _care._

The problem was that in over a decade of putting up with social ineptness, he'd never once heard Simmons complain so much about it before Kimball gave them their troop assignments.

"I just… there's this feeling that they don't like me very much," Simmons stammered out in the middle of the night from the top bunk.

Grif glared at the bottom of Simmons' spring box mattress and wondered how much energy it was going to require to kick him without getting up from his own spot.

"The two girls who are constantly leaving notes on our door and messages on your radio?" he asked in a near growl. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure they hate you. In fact, I heard in the girl's locker room they've been writing mean things about you on the stall doors. Like how they suspect you don't have balls."

"You're not helping," Simmons groaned, making the bed creak as he tossed for what Grif thought was maybe the millionth time. He let out a frustrated groan that lulled Grif into thinking that just _maybe_ the conversation was finally dropped, when finally he heard, "You don't really think they do that, do you? I've never been in the girl's locker room–"

"Ho-lee _fuck,_ dude – Simmons! You're a grown ass man!" Grif cried out, pulling at his own hair.

"That's why I've not been in there–"

"I'm about to start spitting on everything you own and hold dear," Grif warned. "Especially considering it's almost _one in the goddamn morning_ and you're still going on about this shit. I need my sleep!"

For a moment, Simmons was quiet again a smaller creak letting Grif know the man had shifted his weight back to whatever position he had been holding before. And in that silence, Grif thought that _perhaps_ he had put an end to what seemed like Simmons' _endless_ neuroses.

Then, "I mean. I couldn't imagine Jensen doing anything like that. Jensen's a good kid. And smart. I see her as being above that sort of immaturity. She'd probably tell me, too. She's a tattle tale when convenient. So there _couldn't_ be any rumors about me that she wouldn't have told me. I can trust Jensen."

"You can trust her," Grif mocked. "You know this because, of course, you've been able to hold long conversations with her rather than your usual response to anyone you find remotely attractive which is to freeze on spot and sputter like a backed up Warthog."

Simmons moved again, this time swinging far enough over the side of the bunks to look down at Grif, delivering the full scowl. "It's not people who I find attractive that I have a hard time talking to," he corrected almost snottily. " _Obviously."_

Grif stared at him for a long moment, feeling every hair of his body on edge as he tried to let the information Simmons just gave him sink in. Then, with a dry swallow, he gasped out, "Oh my god. You're in love with her."

Something ugly was turning in Grif's stomach just before Simmons' pillow hit him so hard in the face he began flailing.

"God you're so fucking dense," Simmons bemoaned before rolling back out of Grif's sight.


	14. Grif: Labels

Based on the awesome AI AU made by goodluckdetective!

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fourteen: Grif: Labels

Phi had a loose understanding of most things outside of probabilities and calculable sums, general thought projects and perusing retrievable data. But unlike most of his brothers he understood people pretty intimately.

Or, perhaps, not _people_ so much as he understood what was _between_ people.

He could pull out a map of every person he knew and outline, in detail, their relationships, why they had such relationships, and what he as an AI could do to better those ties.

It's what he did.

That all as it were, if there was one person he _could_ make an argument for him understanding intimately, it would be his assigned partner. Grif.

Grif didn't build relationships he didn't have to. Phi had a whole file on why – things he had observed, official files and histories, some of the siphoned memories that came from sharing a brainspace with someone for a while – so he understood the need to back off at times, not push Grif into forcing new relationships rather than work on the ones he had already.

That was fine. _Cool_ even.

And while the press for breaking ground with Simmons was always a concern hot on Phi's mind, it was just as fun and rewarding to the AI to plant seeds for other things.

The other day he got Grif _not_ to yell at Bitters and it was like Christmas come early.

But one thing the AI could not peg, no matter how hard he tried, was Sarge.

Zeta's whispers about the stress of dealing with Sarge was enough to put Phi on guard with the rest of the AI, of course. AI were minds made of stronger stuff than that of organic tissue, so the idea of being drawn into nervousness by a single human was something of a larger deal already, but for Phi things got even more personal.

Sarge was Grif's commanding officer, and while that certainly meant something to Phi, and on a level the AI could comprehend to Grif as well, there was something just not _right_ about the way they spoke to each other.

"Grif! The Lieutenants are in need of a moving target – there's no better way to prepare one's mind, body, and soul for war than to have already had experience with bettering the world through realistic violence. So I'm going to need you to stand in front of this big red bull's eye and do what you do best: don't move."

Grif sighed, turning in the hall to look into the training room. Phi projected to his shoulder, looking mildly concerned at Grif before taking note of Zeta's red glare waving emphatically in front of Sarge's vision.

"Colonel! That is not an approved method of training!"

"Oh, don't turn Blue on me, you," Sarge gruffed back at Zeta, trying to swat through the hologram like he was a fly.

Phi crossed his arms. "Probability of surviving a firing squad at fifty feet is–"

"Ignore it, Phi, it's not happening," Grif grunted, putting his hands on his hips. "Hey, Sarge! The war's fucking over. Did you forget that part?"

"But there's no need to stop training for the next one!"

Grif shook his head. "How about _no_ then?"

"How about _I_ shoot you with my _shotgun court martial_ then!?"

"I'd like to see you try!" Grif snapped back just before there was a pop of bullets.

Phi began to run emergency protocol, began to start first contact with Doctor Grey's hospital, start warming up the healing unit when– bullet trajectory stats came up and he realized in utter confusion that they were dropping like flies only ten feet from Sarge. He and Grif stood at about thirty.

When Sarge pumped the shotgun and shot again, Phi turned to Grif. "Is he…"

"He modified his gun to only shoot at a shorter range," Grif responded with a roll of his eyes before he flicked off his C.O. and began back down the hall.

"So he wouldn't have shot you?" Phi asked, ignoring Zeta's frustrated mumbling across the AI shared frequency.

"Oh, if I was closer, I'm sure I'd have a few dents in my armor," Grif responded casually. "But yeah, Sarge knows his gun wouldn't reach that far away. He's tried it out enough times. You should have seen the time he replaced our Warthog's gun with a canon that was modified with an EMP."

Phi thought over the information. "Wouldn't that…"

"Yeah, took like fifteen minutes to start up the Warthog every time we shot it, stupid piece of shit," Grif snickered.

"Hm," Phi responded, catalogueing the new information to be processed. Once more, his diagramming for Sarge and Grif's relationship came under question. He turned to his partner. "Grif? I am running across a discrepancy."

"That sucks," Grif said, obviously with little to no concern for not knowing what such a discrepancy could be.

"It's about you and Sarge," he said. "I don't know how to document your relationship."

"Mark my words then," Grif said, waving his hand in the air as if it was revealing each word. "Pain. In. My. Ass."

"From buckshot?"

"No, just in general."

Phi crossed his arms. "But, that's what you have Private Donut and Captain Simmons under as well."

"And Lopez," Grif reminded him.

"But I subcategorize those as 'love,'" Phi explained, rubbing his head. "Will I have to do the same for Sarge?"

"Uh, do you have to talk about this out loud in public? Seriously, we've talked about this, dude. Don't use the 'L' word around here," Grif groaned.

"But they _are_ the same category in a sense?" Phi asked.

"God, if it'll make you feel better, yes. Yes they are. In a _way,"_ Grif said firmly. He stopped, seeing Phi was about to protest, and held up a finger to silence the AI. "Look, Sarge and I? We're complicated. But if love was easy, we'd be writing songs about better things. Like pizza." He paused, turned his head toward the mess hall. "Speaking of which, I just thought of something better we could be doing."

Phi recorded, documented, and underscored every word as they went along toward the mess hall. He couldn't help but smile after Grif. He could see that even he could learn a lot from his partner about love.


	15. Grif: You Can't Talk About Him

Grif isn't on Sarge's defense squad. Until he is.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifteen: Grif: You Can't Talk About Him

He had so much credit for slinking around the mess hall that it was practically a college degree by that point, so Grif was rather used to going conveniently unnoticed by other soldiers who were gathered in the cafeteria as he took some snacks for himself among the rations. It was a good way to get a pulse on the gossip around the base as well – not that Grif was a gossip so much as it was nice to have a handle on what trouble there was to avoid in the near future.

Drama was a lot of work he didn't have patience for, after all.

It wasn't really all that long into the process of grabbing some snack pies that it was becoming increasingly clear to him, however, that this particular eavesdropping was hitting a bit too close to home.

"I just. The asshole is fucking senile and I don't even know if he gets what war we're fighting. I don't give a fuck what shooting a _Blue_ is like, I just want to kick some pirate ass off my planet."

"Dude, he touches my weapon or ride one more time when I go to the armory, I'm going straight to Command. I don't trust him."

"I bet they backfire and shoot buckshot at you."

Grif chewed a bit on his cheek. He had about three desserts that didn't belong to him in hand and nowhere to pack them off to. It wasn't a good position to be in for snackage sneakage.

And there was a part of him he hated quite a bit for recognizing a lot of complaints from his own backlog being listed.

But, well, that was the thing, wasn't it? He had a backlog because he had a reason to.

Who the fuck were _these_ assholes?

"Maybe if we talk to one of the medics they can at least get his gun taken away while on the base? It makes me nervous that he's always waving that around without the safety–"

Grif put back one of the three stolen pies and walked out from around the shelving unit in the kitchen. He glared at the soldiers – unsurprisingly they looked like a bunch of punkass kids.

"Hey, fuckfaces," he called out, making the rest of his way out of the kitchen and coming toward them.

Immediately, the four of them stiffened, standing in attention with eyes wide.

The captain was _less_ than impressed with the sight.

"Listen here, you can _fuck off_ with formalities around me," he said, gritting his teeth. "I'm not going to act like I give a shit about respecting the orders of a superior officer to a 't' – but you don't get to talk shit about Sarge, alright? And especially not in goddamn public for everyone to hear. It's not cool. It's not funny. It's not… You don't know a fucking _thing_ about any of us."

The four looked at each other, then back to Grif. Confusion was drawn very obviously on their faces.

"But… Captain Grif, you complain about the colonel all the time? Literally?"

Grif could just _feel_ his blood pressure going up. "I also have spent almost _fourteen years_ with the man, so maybe I actually know what the fuck I'm talking about. The guy's a mad genius with reckless abandon, I've got to be pragmatic. It's my goddamn job. Doesn't mean I'm any less proud to do it because holy shit, his plans actually work? Because he would march head first toward a monster like the Meta with nothing but his shotgun because he believed in us being able to pull through with his crazy ideas?"

"You're… proud of Colonel Sarge?"

"Better fucking believe it," Grif snapped. "Now get the fuck out of here before I actually get _angry_ with you."


	16. Sarge: Aftermath

Sarge needs to know where his men are and he needs to know right then.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Sixteen: Sarge: Aftermath

He woke up hooked up to more wires than a fancy computer.

Sarge noted as much out loud, groggily looking around the room and wondering whose bright idea it was to make hospital lights _so_ bright. He could hardly make out the opaque figures around him.

"You've had a hard time of it, Colonel," Agent Washington's voice came through the blur, letting Sarge finally focus on the man's form. "But I think the staff is going to breathe quite a bit easier now that you're… comparatively coherent."

"Don't speak so cryptically, son," Sarge huffed, struggling with everything in him to keep his head from resting back on the soft, wonderful pillow. "I don't have much time for talking 'round bushes."

"I'm really _not_ that cryptic," he said, completely sardonic in that way only Washington could really deliver regardless of circumstances.

As the memories began to flood back – the Charon vessel, the Chairman's office, the Meta's suit, the last stand – except, like every time, his last stand wasn't quite his last it would seem. There were no Blues in heaven, after all.

"I thought it'd been a good day to die," he mumbled.

"Well, perhaps another day your odd need to run headlong into battle will lead to your demise," Washington said dryly. "As it stands, Doctor Grey put a lot of work into keeping you in one piece, so I think you should honor that for a few weeks."

The former Freelancer began to move when Sarge managed to gather his strength, pull forward, and grab the man by his jacket, and yank him toward the bed. The alarms blared at the increase in heart rate and the snapping of electrodes from their carefully placed positions. Sarge could care less.

"You hold on just one minute, Agent Washington," Sarge ground out. He could feel a thickening pressure on his chest, a need to cough strongly from his diaphragm, and the pull of muscles he wasn't even aware he had hurt. "Those were impossible odds, and I'm the last person you would be sitting on in the hospital. So you had best tell me point blank what's happened to my men or else, son, we're going to be having some _problems."_

Wash gave him an incredulous look. "Everyone… well. Red Team, Caboose, and Tucker are all here, too. Oh, and Doc. It's just… your recovery is taking a bit longer. It was just my watch."

Sarge eyed him suspiciously.

"That's the truth," Wash pressed. "No one… Red Team came out stronger than ever."

Staring at Washington, giving him a look over, Sarge slowly began to release the other soldier. "Who didn't make it, then?"

"Epsilon. It was… Church, he didn't make it."

Sarge huffed, releasing Washington and falling back onto the bed. "Sure he didn't," he said, completely unbelieving.

"I'm afraid he didn't," Wash said almost sorrowfully.

"I've heard that before," Sarge sighed almost wistfully. "He'll be back eventually. Then everyone will have made it just fine." He closed his eyes a little tiredly. "Good to know. I can sleep on that. Figure out some ways to get back at Grif for not going with Operation Shotgun. Slacker."

When he drifted back into medicated rest, he almost missed the distinctive sound of Donut nearby sucking up some tears and declaring, "He really _does_ care!"


	17. Grimmons: Why Are We Here?

Grimmons. Grif learns about Simmons rejected promotion.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Seventeen: Grimmons: Why Are We Here?

Blood Gulch wasn't the same after they blew up the ship.

The Blues didn't bother to put up appearances anymore, and after nearly a week of getting pissed off at Simmons and vice versa Grif had decided ultimately that keeping watch on Outpost Alpha was a needless endeavor.

Church and Caboose didn't really move from whatever posts they had taken up for the day. Tucker hadn't been seen since his alien kid disappeared with the rest of the ship's contents (a part of Grif felt bad about that, but Simmons reported once that a transport Pelican had moved off site just a week into their watch, looked like Tucker had been transported out, and for that Grif felt less guilty and the tiniest bit more jealous).

And, well, it was just weird and sickening to watch his own sister through a sniper rifle's scope, so Grif just gave up on it. She was fine. The Blues were done fighting, and in the end so was Grif.

Things only really changed once Sarge received a transmission that there were "troop reassignments", the first being that Donut was leaving.

 _That_ was when Grif was beginning to feel more than a little irate.

"Right, because _Donut's_ put in more time in this hellhole than either of us!" Grif snarled, kicking over their dingy room's waste basket. He tried not to feel proud of how all the contents managed to tumble onto what was once Donut's side.

Simmons frowned, crossing his arms as he watched the tantrum unfold. "It wasn't Donut's fault, Grif."

"No, but it _was_ the fault of our stupid fake Command," Grif pointed out, rubbing his face. "Goddamn, dude. We're never going to be allowed to leave here. _Ever._ I'm going to die trying to remember what it looked like outside of this stupid canyon."

"When we were chasing O'Malley we weren't stuck in the canyon," Simmons pointed out.

"Oh, don't start," Grif huffed, putting his hands on his hips and looking out over the destruction he inflicted on the room. He looked back at Simmons very seriously. "I can't believe you're not furious about this. All you've wanted for _five years_ now is a promotion, and – breaking news – you're not going to get one here."

Simmons' brow furrowed. "How did you miss the conversation I had with Sarge last week?"

"What do you mean? I slept through it. That's what I do when you two start talking over each other," Grif responded. In truth, he had been boiling in anger already over the very idea of Donut getting to leave before him, everything else came short in registering for him.

"I was offered a promotion," Simmons responded clearly, he began rubbing his shoulder almost nervously. "I had to leave, so I turned it down."

Grif stared holes into Simmons. "You _what!?"_

"Did you really think I'd leave?" Simmons asked.

"To advance yourself? To get out of the stupid canyon!? _YES!"_ Grif cried out throwing out his arms. "What were you thinking, Simmons!?"

"That you, Lopez, and Sarge would kill each other the second this base was left to just the three of you," Simmons said pointedly. "Just _try_ to tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not, but that's not the point!" Grif roared, rubbing his face roughly. "Fucking hell, Simmons. You passed up a _promotion!?_ They're never going to give you another one after that, don't you get that? I mean. You hate this place, too. Don't deny it."

"I don't have to deny it, it's obvious. But that doesn't mean that I can't also see things through, Grif," Simmons said candidly. "Tell you what, you find a way to get _both_ of us out of here together, I'll accept it without questions."

Grif stared at him. "What, like call Command? _Myself?_ Say what? That we're some kind of bonded pair? Like a set of pugs?"

"I honestly don't care what you do," Simmons said, heading out of the bunks. "I don't care if you do nothing. I've got my own reasons for staying with you."

Watching Simmons leave, Grif swore under his breath.

He made a call that afternoon.


	18. Kimbalina: Her Wingman

Tucker & Carolina [background Kimbalina]. Carolina's getting ready for a date.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Eighteen: Kimbalina: Her Wingman

"I mean, _personally_ I'd go with the gold shadow. It blends better. Also, with the way you put on eyeliner? You don't need more pizazz. What? Afraid someone's not going to notice that your eyes are _electric_ green?"

Carolina hesitated, glaring at herself in the mirror. She wasn't yet sure if she was more upset with Tucker's constant droning or if she was more angry at herself for letting it get this far.

The entire date, after all, was _completely_ Tucker's fault.

"Why do you know so much about this?" Carolina asked, raising a brow at Tucker's reflection.

"Hey, a lady's man should know about the intricacies of what the ladies go through. It only makes sense," Tucker said definitively, crossing his arms. "Also? _No ponytail._ Seriously? Were you seriously going to go with a ponytail on the first date."

"I honestly don't think Kimball would care," Carolina said fiercely.

"Of course Kimball wouldn't care, she's got a catch!" Tucker groaned, throwing up his hands. "It's not about Kimball caring, it's about _you_ caring _for_ Kimball. Going the extra mile and changing appearances to impress won't do shit to attract Kimball, duh, you've already got the attraction part. But now you're going to show her you care about looking good _for_ her and that's going to flatter her. Then she's going to go from 'I'm really enjoying this date, maybe we'll go again' to 'I'm going to tap that, whether it's today or tomorrow or the day after, I'm going to conquer _dat ass.'"_

Carolina covered his face, snorting into her hands. "Oh, my god, what is wrong with you."

"Nothing's wrong with me, I'm perfection, just ask my kid."

Looking over her shoulder, Carolina shook her head slightly at Tucker. "Why do you care so much about setting this up, Tucker? What's your end goal here?"

"Hey, man, I'm just here as the love guru," he said, hands on his hips. "And maybe I just think _someone_ on Blue Team deserves to get laid regularly. Like goddamn. I mean. Not that I don't. Uh… Well, shit."

Smirking, Carolina passed him, bothering to give a firm but affectionate punch to his shoulder in the process. "I'll return the favor and set you up sometime," she said half jokingly.

"With as awkward as you were when I got this whole arrangement set up? Yeah, no thanks. I'd have better luck getting help from the Reds. Uh. If I needed it. Which I don't. Because excellent wingmen can handle getting their own dates. Which I do. All the time. On the side of everything else I've got going on – don't laugh at me!"


	19. Carolina & Washington: Not THAT Way

CarWash Bros. Carolina and Wash have a special relationship and they don't appreciate it being interpreted wrong.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Eighteen: Carolina & Washington: Not THAT Way

It was hard to not stand by Carolina when given the option. They had known each other for nearly two decades, had spent years with each other's backs, and even more time missing each other and their other friends.

Even on Chorus, they'd so far spent more time apart than they had together. It was just an unfortunate reality of the situation on Chorus.

So when Tucker, Sarge, and Carolina had rolled in from another successful away mission and she had decided to get herself some grub, Wash was the first to follow with her, to ask about things, to get an update on how Tucker's skills were progressing.

It was a noticeable effort of reaching out to someone from the former spec ops that had rather quickly made his m.o. known on Chorus as not being overly close to anyone outside of his signature unit.

At least, that was the blathering excuse that Palomo was so desperately trying to make sound coherent as he talked himself further and further into a hole.

"It's just that you guys are really good together. I mean. It doesn't have to be in _that_ way. It's just that you're good together. In a platonic way? Or it doesn't have to be platonic. I'm so confused, I thought for sure you were…" Palomo stopped short, his fingers doing some sort of motion that Wash was fairly sure was disconnected from any sort of reality of two people interacting.

"Have you seen this mess of a human being?" Carolina demanded, waving a hand emphatically around Wash. "He's a mess. But he's my mess the way he's basically my _brother._ My son."

"I think you're fine with brother," Wash corrected, looking at her seriously. "Son? Really?"

"Quiet, Wash," she said without even looking his way.

"Yes'm," he muttered, crossing his arms. He then looked seriously at Palomo. "Don't make assumptions based off expected gender roles, Palomo. Just because we're good friends doesn't mean Carolina and I are looking at each other with bedroom eyes." He couldn't help the way his nose curled at the thought. "I couldn't even imagine."

"Because you don't even know how to make bedroom eyes," Carolina snarked.

"Oh, don't make this worse than it already is," Wash countered.


	20. Washington: Why Did It Have To Be Aliens

Tucker needs Wash to come with him to visit Junior, but Wash isn't so happy with it.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty: Washington: Why Did It Have To Be Aliens?

Agent Washington had been a soldier before Freelancer's recruitment – the program had specifically looked for the Best of the Best, and somehow Wash had fallen into that category. _Somehow_ being a lot more hard earned than he cared to discuss with his men, who already complained that they knew hardly anything about him prior to meeting him.

No one knew about him from before Freelancer. Not anymore. No one knew about the training and the fighting and the war and the losing.

The losing was the hardest part. Because they were _losing_ the war with the aliens. That was why projects like Freelancer got to the desperate states they were at. Years and years of it, watching entire colonies disappear over night, watching the panic slowly rise as the UNSC tracked movements closer and closer to Earth.

Wash at one time had nodded along with the screams of "lizards" and "dinosaurs" thrown at the brutal Elites – but he had also watched a Sangheili tear a private in half on a battlefield before.

War was hell. Aliens were the enemies.

But Freelancer… it got distracted. And, along with it, so was Wash and the other Freelancers. He did more for the war prior to Freelancer than he ever did inside of it, where shooting inhuman looking species turned into killing fellow men in the name of _insurrection_ and _greater good.  
_

Wash learned a long time ago that he wasn't a proper judge of who his enemies were if he was going purely off of what superior officers were telling him. That he had to put some faith in people who actually earned his trust – people like the Reds and Caboose and Tucker…

"You said nothing about there being more Elite here," Washington said in a harsh whisper, glaring at Tucker. "You said it was a visit with your son–"

"Oh my god, do _not_ call them fucking Elite you racist asshole," Tucker groaned. "Do you want our arms ripped off?"

"It's not racist, if anything it's speciesist," Wash snapped back, folding his arms and glaring at Tucker while simultaneously attempting to fold in on himself so as to take up as little space as possible as the various larger bodied aliens around them went about their business. "And my point still stands. The only thing you said was that you needed me to drive you to see your son."

Tucker rolled his eyes so hard that his head bobbed with the motion. "Fuck, dude. Calm down. Of course there's more Sangheili than just Junior. It's an _embassy._ That's how embassies work. There's probably some other alien fuckers running around here, too, not just Sangheili. But it's not a big deal."

Wash scowled at Tucker, wondering how it was possible for someone who was signed up to fight a _war_ against these other species could be so calm about the current human-alien relations. But he also kept in mind that it was more than just the fact that Tucker had Junior in his life – Tucker also never had to fight, he was only _ever_ in Freelancer. And most of it had been after the war was winding down to begin with.

For a moment, Wash wondered how he could have ever become so incredibly bitter about the position of the Sim Troopers.

"Just calm down, Jesus, you're going to get us killed," Tucker groaned, grabbing Wash's shoulders from behind and pushing him forward toward one of the help desks.

"I think I should wait in the car–"

"Nope, that's not happening. Shut up," Tucker ground out, pushing them the rest of the way before stopping. "Yo! I'm Captain Lavernius Tucker, I'm here to meet my son…"

"Oh, yes," the woman said pleasantly, immediately pulling up something on her viewscreen. "Your son and the Sangheili guard are alerted and shall be coming right this way."

Wash scratched at his neck nervously. " _Guards_ , Tucker?"

"Did I mention my son was alien Jesus?" Tucker asked almost too casually.

"Yes, but I didn't take it literally."

"Pfft. Well, _that_ was a mistake." Tucker clapped his hands then rubbed them together enthusiastically. His eyes were sparking with excitement. Even when he looked to Wash he seemed to almost be bouncing in spot. "I've not seen him for years, Wash… Can you imagine? Not seeing your own kid in _years?_ Him thinking you're dead? It's just… it's something else."

Studying Tucker for a moment, Wash processed it. Chorus had been some harsh years on all of them, but there was hardly an opportunity in any of those years where Tucker didn't find a way to work being a father or just Junior in general into those topics.

The Freelancer could kick himself over how obvious the hurt was in hindsight.

"It had to have been hard," he decided to say as unhelpfully as possible.

There was a dip in Tucker's smile. "It wasn't fun," he said simply before turning directions at the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. His entire body tensed up in anticipation.

Washington joined him, eyes widening at the sight of fully armored, fully _armed_ Elite approaching in formation. All uniformly dwarfing the two space marines in civilian clothes in every scale imaginable.

All save the one that was only about _five_ inches taller than Wash himself.

"Father!"

"Junior! Oh my god!"

The smallest of the Sangheili, dressed in a sleeker, more appropriate indoor attire, had a flair for aqua and royal blue that Wash knew was no mere coincidence. Just as it was probably no coincidence that the smaller Sangheili was visibly darker and finer scaled than his guards.

Regardless, _Junior_ was an intimidating presence already, and only just reaching his teen years. Which made the fact that in one swoop the alien was able to lift fully grown Tucker off his feet and swing him around in a huge hug all the more daunting.

"Jesus," Wash let out in shock.

Junior paused midswing, Tucker hugging fiercely to his neck, and gave a large smile from his mandibles. "Not _exactly,"_ he joked. He slowly leaned over, putting his human father back on his feet, and then turned to Wash, stretching to an incredible height in doing so. "BLARGH! Hello! I'm Lavernius Tucker the Second!"

Wash had to blink a few times, still finding himself more than a little shocked. The alien – Tucker's _son_ – when not spluttering in an alien script sounded childlike. He _was_ a child, even as large as he was.

It was jarring.

"HONK HONK!" Junior sputtered back to the stiffened guards, causing a small jovial rumble between them all. Tucker snickered with him, rubbing circles into his son's back like it _wasn't_ requiring him to be on the tips of his toes to do so. Junior then looked back to Wash, still grinning. "You must be Agent Washington."

"I am," Wash said dryly.

He wasn't quite sure _what_ to do when he noticed that Junior reached a large, four fingered hand toward him. Junior's smile was still bright and broad.

"Thank you, Agent Washington, for taking care of my dad and bringing him to me safe," the child said with a sophistication and grace that Wash was _still_ trying to train into his father. "And all of my family, really. I know how they are, that they need a lot of guidance.

"Well," Wash said, slowly reaching toward the hand and accepting the awaiting shake. "Not as much as you might think. Your father's quite the warrior, after all."

Junior laughed with a force that shook his whole being. "He is," he agreed.

"And you're right. I _am_ Agent Washington, I'm sorry for the delayed introduction," Wash continued. "I was taken aback. I've heard a _lot_ about you, Junior. It's wonderful to finally meet you."


	21. Tuckington: Why Did the Wash Cross the R

Tuckington. Tucker insists on going shopping.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty-One: Tuckington: Why Did the Wash Cross the Road?

Shopping in the city was among the _last_ things that Wash had been interested in doing. He even said as much to Tucker over breakfast when the proposition of shopping – for shoes, how many _shoes_ did Tucker need when the majority of their time was spent in _armor_ anyway – first came up. But not only did Tucker insist, he _threatened.  
_

"If you don't go, I'll charge everything to Blue Team's budget," Tucker had warned.

Wash had at first looked to Caboose and Carolina to back him up, but neither seemed particularly interested in doing so. Probably because being "leader" of the team put Wash as the _only_ one responsible. And the only reason the Freelancer troopers even _had_ divided accounts on Chorus was because of Sarge's insistence.

And… Wash's reluctance to take any fiscal responsibility for whatever projects Sarge decided to blow Red Team's allowances on. Regardless.

Ultimately, Wash found himself babysitting a grown man – a grown man with a _kid_ – on a small shopping spree in one of the freshly resettled cities across Chorus.

"What's so important about new shoes?" Wash asked, hardly paying attention to what pairs Tucker was pulling out of the aisle. He was instead laser focused on watching the people pass by the shopping center – the strange but average Chorus mesh up of full armor and civilian dress as people tried desperately to let go of old habits – and the freshly posted UNSC soldiers posted with the Martial law in effect.

"Have you seen my one pair of running shoes?" Tucker demanded sourly.

"You run in your armor boots, we _train_ in armor," Wash reminded Tucker, finally looking over just as Tucker decided on a pair. He then blinked in surprise. "You don't _have_ running shoes."

"You're high on the uptake today!" Tucker snorted. "Yeah, I mean. I have these slip ons that we all have, and then nada. I wanted to join Donut for a run yesterday and he ended up taking Caboose instead because my stupid feet are incompatible with all of his pairs."

Wash frowned. "Caboose has the biggest foot of any of us. How did _he_ fit in Donut's shoes–"

"Caboose doesn't mind running barefoot," Tucker responded. He stood up, showing off the shoes with a twist. "Eh? _Eh?_ What'd ya think?"

"I think they're shoes."

"You're no fun," Tucker sighed, fishing in his pocket for his credits.

Looking back out the window at the somewhat bustling street, Wash just sighed. "Yeah… I know."

He only peripherally took note of Tucker checking out and chattering with the workers in the store before stepping out for a breath of air. Wash couldn't help but notice another UNSC vessel was landing just outside the city and felt compelled to take note of how many additional soldiers and supplies were coming their way.

Only a few feet from the store, Wash could hear a rapid acceleration before someone from behind grabbed his hand and jerked him back to the sidewalk.

Bewildered, he blinked as a UNSC jeep flew by where Wash had just been standing. He then looked to his hand then up to Tucker's face.

"Jesus, what is the deal with you and cars?" Tucker demanded.

"They don't like me," Wash said so seriously that it made Tucker look more than a little baffled, as if he wasn't sure how to take it.

"Okay, whatever. God, you're worse than Junior."

Swallowing a little dryly, realizing just how hot his hand was in Tucker's, Wash tried to pull back. "Thank you, Tucker, you can let go now."

"Dude, apparently I can't! You don't know how to look both ways!"


	22. Yorkalina: Doesn't Change Anything

Yorkalina. Sometimes she really hates that stupid lighter.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty-Two: Yorkalina: Doesn't Change Anything

Chorus was a planet in the middle of nowhere that had something very, _very_ wrong with it.

Not long into investigating it, Carolina discovered cities left abandon, carnage everywhere, no citizens to speak of, and no resources beyond what scraps remained from age old harvests.

Epsilon was spending his time using the abandoned equipment they had found in one of the pot marked ruins to locate another radio signal from this ominous _Control_ , but he was taking his time with it.

It was one of the few times that she felt alone in her own head again, maybe the first time since they crashed, and just as it had with the loss of Eta and Iota, it was a bizarre, alien sort of feeling. Being alone in her own skin.

 _Alone.  
_

She was always finding new definitions of that word, it seemed.

Left to her thoughts, Carolina always seemed to find herself back _there._ Her fingers ran over the lighter she'd managed to slip from her pocket without even thinking, flicking it open then closed again then open–

Her eyes closed, favoring the imaginary smell of too strong perfumes and the drumming of a thick beat all around her. That smug arrogance on his face and the way it immediately dropped off when she took his pride right out from underneath him. The elation she felt when surprised to find that he didn't react with indignance and a need for a fight but almost immediate loyalty and swooning.

Carolina opened her eyes, flicked the lighter on, flicked it off, wondered how such a cheap thing could work after all the years and all the hardship when so many others in her life didn't anymore.

The glow of Epsilon wasn't exactly subtle, but she didn't immediately look to him as he stared over her shoulder.

The tracings of York's name – before Freelancer and codes and betrayals – was still on her well bitten lips. But she kept that to herself, just like she pocketed the lighter.

"So…" Epsilon carried on, being a little too obvious that he was changing subjects before subjects even got started. "I've hidden a tracker in some of that Freelancer tech we saw at the other site, and it's definitely on the move. I think if we follow that, we can put an end to this whole operation. Whatever it is."

"Sounds like a plan," she said, pushing up and walking toward the equipment so she could get Epsilon's chip.

"Uh… Carolina, hey," Epsilon continued, reappearing before her, hands twiddling a little nervously. "I… I don't want this to seem more awkward than it already is, and believe me, the irony of _me_ saying this to anyone is _not_ lost on me – but…"

"I let it go," Carolina stopped him short, resisting the urge to reach for the lighter for emphasis. "Except for the things that are mine to keep, I've let it go, Epsilon. I let _him_ go. But I'm still allowed to miss him."

"I know," Epsilon said softly. "It's just… with everything that's happened… the Director and Freelancer and the crash…"

"What happened doesn't change anything," Carolina responded. "I promise."

It was the truth. No matter how much sometimes she wished it wasn't.


	23. Caboose Siblings: Protective Instincts

Niner & Caboose Siblings. Niner rises to the defense

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty-Three: Caboose Siblings: Protective Instincts

Most days, she found it hard to step into her old skin again. More often than not she would open her eyes and not thing to answer to _Andromeda Caboose_ , she was _Four-Seven-Niner._ Without even a second thought.

What little she discussed with Carolina and Washington, they seemed to think much the same, years and years without thinking of old names, the Program had given them new ones. It seemed fair.

But then, there was the very _second_ she heard "Freckles" again, and that seemed to all change.

At least where Michael was concerned.

Since rediscovering her younger brother, Niner had done almost everything in her power to be with him – something that only doubled upon forcing elaboration from the other former Freelancer operatives what had happened to change her brother so much from the young man she knew.

Unfortunately, Michael J. Caboose was not an easy man to tail. Especially when he got distracted while Niner was being pestered with terrible, obvious questions about the out of date ships the UNSC transporter had.

"Look, I don't give a fuck _what_ cuts the military has, you put that junk in the air it's going to crash. End of story. None of my people are getting on it, so how about you send some of _yours_ and hand me over the keys to the Forty-nine I see tucked away in the corner?" she snapped off in the midst of scanning the carrier's immediate area. No Michael. she swore under her breath. "You know what, you fuckers figure it out on your own, but none of us are getting on a ship until it has _my_ seal of approval, and that's final."

As she shoved past them, Niner began immediately for the hall, knowing Michael's logic would have him going for his friends almost immediately. "Mikey! Mike! Where are you?"

Grunting, Niner got only about fifteen feet before she could overhear some angry curses.

"Are you fucking stupid or something!? What the fuck's wrong with you?"

Immediately, Niner felt her hackles raise and she doubled her pace. "Oh hell no. Oh _hell no."_

Her stomach pooled with dread as she approached the scene, almost instinctively predicting it before seeing it realized. Michael – her sweet, blundering, large, little brother – folded in on his shoulders, head ducked low as he curled around the the unloaded assault rifle that was ticking off angrily in an attempt to spend bullets that it didn't have. There were five soldiers in regulation grays and blues standing around, various degrees of scorn and amusement on their face as the one at the head of the group continued to snap off.

"Sorry, I said I was sorry, please go, don't yell," her brother murmured only just enough to be picked up by his helmet radio. "You can go away now please thank you."

"Motherfucker, you need more than an _apology_ for fucking up my patrol."

Niner gnashed her teeth, seeing nothing but red as she dove forward, grabbed the MP, spun him around, and laid him out with a single right hook. The rest of the goon squad stood in absolute astonishment, staring back at Niner.

 _Let them stare,_ she thought, every fiber of her being _quaking_ with anger.

Before any of them could say a word, she grabbed her brother's forearm, pulled him forward and pulled him along down the hallway. She was livid still, pulse continuing to rise.

By the time they were far enough for Niner to feel like she could _breathe_ , she could hear more than the pulse in her ears, and the sound of sniffling sobs behind her was enough to bring her to a stop.

A chunk of Niner's battered heart was broken at that sound. She turned to her brother.

"Michael?" she asked, ignoring her own cracking.

Uselessly, her brother wiped at his helmet visor like it was meant to do something about the tears underneath. "M-made a m-mistake," he managed.

"No you didn't, _they_ did," she said simply, reaching up to her brother's head, holding the sides of his helmet. "They messed with a Caboose, after all. Everyone should know better."

He huffed. "Th-they said I was stupid… but th-they're not m-my friends. They can't… that's n-not nice, n-not like me saying T-Tucker is. That's th-the truth."

"Michael J. Caboose, you listen to me," Niner ground out, quickly unhitching the helmet with a flick of her thumbs and pulling it off her brother's head. As she suspected, his eyes were lined in red rings, puffy and his cheeks coated in tears. "People like that? Those assholes? Don't listen to them. Don't you _ever_ listen to them. Do you hear me?"

Still huffing and watery, the blue armored soldier nodded the best he could with Niner holding firmly to his cheeks and didn't resist even slightly as she pulled him down and fiercely kissed the salty tears from his cheeks.


	24. Sarge & Simmons: Pride in Your Work

Sarge & Simmons. Sarge cares in his own way.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty-Four: Sarge & Simmons: Pride in Your Work

There was a little bit of hesitation. His fingers drug over the grooves of the metal for a moment, tested them, then shifted pressure back onto them. The pieces all fell into alignment, as they should have. He designed them to be that way, after all.

He had a lot of areas he could go over a third time, and if Simmons wasn't already beginning to kick his feet and stare off in yawn, Sarge probably would have, but he didn't bother. Simmons' reactions would have been the first thing to let Sarge know if something wasn't connected the way it should have been.

Still, he wasn't ever confident that all was well until he took the screwdriver from his bench and smacked it on Simmons' fingers while the soldier was looking bored.

"Ow! Fuck!" Simmons hissed, immediately pulling back the robotic limb, staring at his fingers.

"Simmons! Such language!" Sarge huffed, reaching for his toolbox to begin packing up.

"Oh, right. Ow. Fuck, _Sir!"_ he corrected. He then sighed, dropping his shoulders back and leaning his head against the wall. "Is that enough maintenance for the month?"

"I'd rather do it every week," Sarge said grouchily.

"You don't have to take apart and reassemble all of my parts every week, Sir, that would be too much," Simmons said simply, scanning over Sarge with one eye his own, one of Sarge's creations. "It'd be overkill."

"So says you," Sarge sniffed. "I take pride in my work, though. I want to make sure it runs."

"I've made it this far," Simmons shrugged. "So are we good?"

"Good enough," Sarge sighed. He stiffened as Simmons leaped down from the counter top. "Ehhh, Simmons."

"Yessir?" Simmons half sighed.

"If things _aren't_ good enough–"

"You'll be the first person I call," Simmons responded. Slowly, a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, though, Sir. I'm glad you care."

"Those are expensive parts," Sarge covered almost too quickly.

"Of course they are."


	25. Sargegrey: Wooed

Sargegrey. Sarge isn't speechless very often, but when he is it's probably with the most intelligent mind on the planet.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty-Five: Sargegrey: Wooed

Sarge knew himself to be an intelligent man. What he lacked in degrees or education in favor of military service had long since been dwarfed by his ingenuity and nontraditional application of the sciences he dabbled in.

As far as he was concerned, proper education would have only diminished and inhibited him.

But, for perhaps the first time in his long life, he feeling the pangs of regret to first arrive as he considered that he was far, _far_ out of his intellectual league sitting across from a proper doctor.

Doctor Emily Grey was beautiful, forward, brash, and eccentric. She was everything Sarge ever appreciated in people, and what's more she never failed to impress him.

Which was saying something as Sarge was, by no means, an easy man to impress as it were.

However, as the date had progressed and the garlic bread had long since lost its use as a cover for his lack of contribution in the conversation, Sarge felt his mouth going dry, his hands getting sweaty, and his body otherwise warning him that he needed to reconsider strategies _ASAP.  
_

Because about every fifth word tumbling from Doctor Grey's beautiful mouth was longer than most of Sarge's favorite words combined, and somewhere between switching from neurosurgeon jargon and the PHD work Emily did with concerns to Chorus' flora, Sarge found himself utterly at a loss.

And the more he failed to stuff bread in his mouth, the more he could see the realization dawning on Doctor Grey's own face that their conversations had, just perhaps, reached a touch too far.

A soft blush carried onto her cheeks and Doctor Grey laughed, embarrassed, before running a hand through her hair. "I'm so sorry for my enthusiasm," she said so sweetly it twisted Sarge's guts into more knots. "I know I get rather caught up in hearing my own voice sometimes."

"Who can blame you?" he responded, puffing his chest up to make his point. He settled a heavy gaze on her. "It is, after all, one of the most beautiful sounds on Chorus."

Immediately, the good doctor's face melted into a warm smile, her hand dropping down to cover her heart. "Aren't you just the _sweetest,"_ she laughed, leaning froward unexpectedly over the bread basket.

Sarge only blinked in surprise as Emily cupped the sides of his face and leaned in to kiss his lips. He felt his ears and the bridge of his nose heat up, and stomach flip more than a few times.

While his brain was frying, he could hardly form the concept of reacting with a kiss in return, so Sarge found himself just watching as Doctor Grey sat herself back down, her own blush spread across her face.

Being sure to not waste anything on this night, Sarge coughed into his fist, leaned in on his elbow and raised a sultry brow at his fine date.

"It's a sure good thing you're a doctor," he purred, "because I think I just saw stars."

That time when Emily Grey covered her face it was to desperately mask a high pitched snort. And Sarge couldn't stop himself from grinning.

 _Score._


	26. Docnut & Sargegrey: Advice

Docnut & Sargegrey. Sarge has a date. Sarge needs advice. He might've gone to the wrong couple.

[due to some time restraint, I only got to the Doc + Donut advice section, but I really love this prompt and I hope you don't mind me putting off the rest to maybe revisit at another time because this is awesome : ) ]

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty-Six: Docnut & Sargegrey: Advice

A superior officer did _not_ ask for advice in two departments: Love and War.

If there was ever a rule that Sarge had felt so instrumental to the very core of his being, it would have been that – that there was nothing more precious than maintaining that ideal.

A superior office shouldn't even have _need_ of such types of advice, and yet Sarge found himself blanking after mere hours of hearing Doctor Grey say "yes."

They were going to have dinner together. And while it was never even in Sarge's mind that she would say "no", the old Red had made it a point to not worry about what to do with said Date until he was certain it was something to even _be_ worried about.

Confirmation of said date made it something to be worried about.

So worried, in fact, that Sarge felt willing to go back on one of his sacred rules.

That was how he found himself outside of the rec room during Yoga time, as there was absolutely no way anyone on Red Team would have dared go near there without being fully prepared for baby oil and incense between four and six.

He glared grouchily as Donut unfolded from whatever backbreaking stance he had been in and pulled an exaggerated wave to greet the colonel. His smile could not have been wider or sweatier.

"Oh, _hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii,_ Sarge! I didn't have any idea you'd be coming by today!" Donut preened. He looked to the mat where Doc was still somewhat meditating in a more subdued form. "If I'd known that we would have gotten out the other mat."

Doc opened an eye, staring suspiciously at Donut. "Wait, we have another mat? Why do we always share?"

"I think proximity is keen for a good, working relationship!" Donut grinned back at his partner. "Don't you think so, Sarge?"

Closing his eyes, Sarge released a low groan. He had somewhat hoped that Doc wouldn't have been there. But Doc was almost a non-presence on most days so there was a chance it wouldn't have mattered all that much.

"Hello, Donut," Sarge greeted, electing to ignore anything in relation to Doc and Donut's relationship outside of the very thing Sarge had came for.

Donut was giving him a good look over, head swaying to the side as his brows raised toward his hairline. "I don't see how maneuverable you're going to be in a suit, Sarge. That said, you look _very_ handsome. This is Donut approved attire. Given you _could_ use some color beyond a red tie…"

"I'm not here for a change of wardrobe, Donut," Sarge announced, subconsciously straightening his tie all the same. "I'm here… Well. You see. I'm here for…" The man took pause, scowled a bit at his own fumbling hands.

A superior officer should never ask his men about _Love_ and _War!_

"Is it maybe your hair?" Doc asked curiously. "I mean, the crew cut's not been justified for about a decade since _I've_ known you. I could see how you would want it gone."

Sarge bristled. "What!? How dare you – this is military standard! And as such, there has never been any hair to have even come _close_ to being such an honor. Think of all the brilliant military minds to have rested just beneath this very haircut!"

Doc stroked his chin in thought, then looked back at Sarge. "General Washington didn't."

"That was a wig," Sarge dismissed immediately, waving his hand. "Everyone knows that beneath that wig: a crew cut. Just the sort of style that America was founded upon."

"Okay, so we're not here for hair," Donut agreed, looking between the two of them before settling his gaze back on Sarge. "But what _are_ we here for, Sarge?"

"I… Well. You see, I was…" Sarge glared at his shoes, feeling heat spread across his ears. "I… I am spending a pleasurable evening dining with an exceptional li'l lady and as such I find myself… wondering whether or not I'm… _sweet_ enough to make it work."

Immediately, Sarge learned the sound of two grown men cooing. And decided he hated it and would kill it with fire.

"Aw, Sarge, that's absolutely adorable! I kind of wish I had that on camera," Donut called out excitedly.

"And it's also a pretty good call," Doc spoke up. "Since you're definitely not someone I would categorize in the 'sweet' category by nature."

"Why you– I could kill a man for making such a statement!" Sarge snapped.

"My point exactly!"

"I think what Doc's _really_ trying to say here, Sarge, is that the gesture alone has quite a bit of sweetness attached to it," Donut spoke up, again asserting himself between the two. "However, we're not entirely convinced someone who agreed to a date with you would be expecting supersaturation of it anyway." Donut smiled widely. "So you'll probably be sweetest when you're just yourself to her!"

Doc flinched at that advice. "Or… y'know… the opposite of yourself. The opposite might be even better."

Sarge sputtered. "With counteractive advice it's almost like I didn't get any help from you two at all!"

"Love's weird that way," Donut nodded.


	27. Grif & Donut: Nice to See You Smile

Grif & Donut. It's not a common sight

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty-Seven: Grif & Donut: Nice to See You Smile

It was definitely odd to see Grif without Simmons outside of the base. And, just a little bit, Donut couldn't help but think that it was odd that this was odd to him because, well, he never really was struck by how strange it was when it was Simmons without Grif.

This way, though… Well, it just didn't seem normal.

A little curious, Donut approached, eyebrows raised cautiously as he did so.

Grif was sitting back against the cliff side which protected the newly inhabited Chorus city they took root in. He seemed more distant than Donut had ever seen him, his gaze out over the city didn't seem angry or bitter. He was simply…

Well, he was just calmly taking it in. Looking past the dingy home that bore witness to their adopted home's last straggling population.

Donut somewhat felt like he was intruding, and yet at the same time he was _so_ curious about Grif's appearance, he found himself stepping up alongside his longtime teammate again.

"Hey!" Donut called out, getting Grif's attention at last.

Grif blinked then rolled his eyes with a groan. "Oh, great. What does Sarge want? Wait, don't tell me, I have the answer already. Ahem. _No."_

"Sarge wasn't asking about you," Donut assured the orange soldier with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about that! I wasn't even looking for you, actually. I was just checking out the perimeter."

"What? Why?"

"I need to get a good idea of where a nice garden could be set up," Donut explained with a shrug. "It was going to just be a personal garden for me, but I guess all the talk I gave about it gave Kimball the idea that I should show some of the troops how to start real crops. Help with the food shortage." He smiled brightly. "Wanna help?"

"Are you going to grow candy corn?" Grif asked almost idly.

"I don't think I _can._ It sounded like Kimball wanted food of substance."

"Well, then my answer's no," Grif responded. He crossed his arms. Even in his snark, Grif was wearing an uncharacteristic smile on his face. It was fairly odd and went against everything Donut thought he knew about Grif.

"You seem up in spirits today," Donut announced, stepping up to Grif and poking his side with an elbow. "What's got you in this good mood?"

"Definitely wasn't being pestered by you," Grif snapped. "What do you want, Donut?"

"You're happy. I just wanted to know why," Donut said with a shrug.

Grif, always the skeptic, stared at him for a few long minutes, then he looked back to the horizon. As hard as he tried to keep a straight face, a smile curled on his lips all the same.

"When the UNSC came with their last shipment… they also had some messages to pass along from contacts outside of the communication block," he said almost fondly. "I… I got a recording from my sister."

Donut blinked in astonishment. "No kidding? Wow! Last I heard she had died! That's great. She's fun."

"Yeah, she is," Grif muttered before rubbing the back of his hand against his eyes, sniffing. "I… I hadn't heard her voice in _eight years_ and… I just needed to get away a bit. Soak it in."

Smiling, Donut stepped up by Grif. "That's awesome news, buddy. I'll let you get back to that–"

"I don't mind spending some time with you," Grif sighed. "You can stay. Just… don't do anything creepy or weird."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Donut replied, plopping down on the ground by Grif's feet.


	28. Grif Siblings: For You

Grif Siblings. Grif doesn't think he has a choice when it comes to enlisting

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty-Eight: Grif Siblings: For You

The letter had stains on it exactly where Dexter held his thumbs every time he bothered to pull it out. Which was a lot, especially after getting fired again.

The tool he had for a boss probably took some sick pleasure out of firing him knowing it was only a few weeks before Dex was going to be forcibly deployed anyway. The asshole. Really, all he had done was make Dexter Grif's choices a little easier for him: he didn't _have_ a choice anymore.

Summer and Winter weren't really accurate descriptions of the seasons in Honolulu, a better description was that he was sitting on the beach during the one sunny day in the rainy season.

When he looked out, he couldn't help but take in with a guilty breath just how beautiful everything there was. The paper wrinkled with the shaking of his hands.

Kaikaina was coming in from the water, unmatching swimwear and bright sunkissed smile, her hand painted board under her arm. Just because she was soaked and dripping, she made a point to duck in under the umbrella and hug him and kiss his cheek sloppily.

She was trying to annoy him. It was making him cry.

"Yeesh, you going to stick under here all day?" she grouched, not yet noticing the way he was trembling beside her. Kai plopped down on the towel behind Dex, resting her back against his. She let her slopping wet hair run down his neck. "One of the _only_ days that you let me skip school and you're being such a bum, I swear."

He took a deep breath, choking back on his tears, swallowing them down as he tried to think his way through what to say next. How to tell her what decisions he was making for the rest of her life.

"Bro?" she asked curiously.

Dexter exhaled, ignoring how Kai's hands curled around his shoulders and she leaned in to look at his face. Her face was drawn up in concern. "Dex?"

"Hey, uh… Sis?" he began, looking at her weakly. "Did… did you know the circus is on the off season in the bungalows?" he asked.

"Oh, man, that's just on the other side of the island," she said, looking off toward town. "We could probably go there this weekend! See mom again! You didn't tell me she called, Dex!" she growled, punching his shoulder.

He rolled with it, unable to muster strength to pull the miserable look off his face. He was _so_ tired for someone who was only just seventeen.

Kaikaina's face faltered again. She turned her head to the side. "Dex?"

"I was actually thinking… let's go visit her tomorrow," Grif explained, looking down to his hands. "You've not seen her since June, right? Well, it's important for a girl to be with her mom, so I think it's high time we did that. We'll stop at that spot on Mauna Kea, make some snowmen like we used to. Make a real good trip out of it."

When he looked up, he realized his baby sister had backed off from him, eyes wide and more than a little frightened. "Bro… you're scaring me…"

"Kai, listen to me," he said, getting to his knees and leaning toward her.

"No! You told me we couldn't stay with Mom and the circus anymore, Dex! Why do you want to go back? What's going on?" Kaikaina looked so terrified it made Grif almost feel sick.

He backed off, put his hands solidly on his lap and tried to blink away the blurriness. "Kai, I just… I don't think I have any choice," he said. "I think I've got to go."

"Go? Go where?" Kai pressed before her eyes drifted down to the paper on Dexter's lap. He watched as her face began to lose color. "But… but _everyone_ dies in the war… I don't know anyone who's come back."

"You're fifteen. You don't know that many people," he tried to reason back only to receive a piercing glare from his sister. "Kai, listen–"

"Why? Why don't you have a choice?" she demanded.

"Because!" he growled. "I'm a piece of shit and I can't keep a job to take care of you!"

When he gathered his senses, he looked to his sister to see her face crumbling, falling with tears as she began to curl in on herself. She was _sobbing_ , which was making _him_ begin to cry even more.

"No, no, Sis, please–"

"I don't want you to go!" she wailed. "Dex, please! I'll get a job! I'll help – Big Bro, no!"

"Kai, please," but he couldn't maintain it any longer. He covered his eyes with his hand and tried so hard to not just melt into the sand right then and there, never leave his home

His sister's sobbing were loud, body shaking – enough so that Grif was able to reach over to her without looking and wrap his hand around hers. He held tight, so tight that he could almost trick himself into believing they'd never let go.


	29. Kai & Simmons: Chocolate Cake

Kai & Simmons. Baking Grif a birthday cake turns into quite the revealing conversation.

[NSFW warning for the last lines XD Sorry, guys, I have to keep Kai true to form somehow]

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Twenty-Nine: Kai & Simmons: Chocolate Cake

The frazzled look on Simmons powder smeared face said more than enough – or would have if Kai had bothered to pay attention to it.

Instead, she was whipping and stirring and setting timers and examining eggs, all to the grunting displeasure of her supposed cooking partner.

If nothing else he looked adorable in the matching aprons she forced them to wear.

"How sure are you that chocolate cake is his favorite?" Simmons asked for what was, no joke, about the hundredth time since Sister had even bothered to bring up that they should do something special for her Big Bro's birthday.

"Oh my _gawwwwwd!"_ she groaned, throwing up her hands and slinging some cake batter across Simmons' face in the process. "How many times do you need to ask me that, dude? Do you honestly take your own word over mine? _You didn't know when my brother's birthday was!"_

"He's a very private person," Simmons snapped back, cheeks growing red as he continued to get more flustered.

"Yeah right. I think all you guys in this stupid canyon are really just a bunch of assholes who don't think about this important shit," she snapped off at him, pulling her mixing bowl up against her chest and beginning to whisk it again. "And Big Bro _loves_ chocolate on chocolate cake."

"It just seems so… I don't know, _normal_ for Grif," Simmons sighed, lazily working on the icing again. "I would expect his favorite cake to be something like… I don't know. Gummy Bear surprise. Or mudpies."

Smiling at the batter as she began to poor it in the pan, Sister shrugged, a smile wide across her face. "Maybe it would be. But when we were little and it was just me and my bro growing up? He used to make me the _best_ desserts every year on my birthday. Always something different and _awesome._ But… I never really got interested in cooking and stuff. I just one year on his birthday went to the store by myself, got one of those cake mix boxes, and used its instructions to make a cake." She looked up to see Simmons' attention was fully on her. "I didn't know that icing came separate."

"Oh, no!" Simmons laughed.

"Yeah," she snorted. "I didn't have any more money to go to the store and get icing, and when my bro came home and saw me crying about it, he ate the _whole cake_ dry. And then drank all our milk." She smiled fondly at the cake pan before turning around and putting it in the oven. "That's when I decided to learn how to make chocolate cake from scratch. It's, like, my _one_ recipe. But Big Bro eats it up, says he loves it. So if you gotta know how to bake something, might as well be something he loves."

Simmons put down the icing bowl, looking misty eyed after the story.

"That was beautiful," he sniffed.

"Yeah," she sighed, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. "I'm glad he likes it. I don't like sweets the way he does. I'm more of a salty person. Maybe that's why I swallow."

Almost immediately, Simmons' face dropped.

"Wait, what?"


	30. Donut & Washington: Trust

Donut & Wash. Donut's got his eye on Locus

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty: Donut & Washington: Trust

Keeping an eye on Locus almost immediately became Donut's foremost concern.

They hadn't been with the F.A.C. long enough for him to really feel he had a handle on the people or situation, and he fully embraced that their friends like Doctor Grey were solid, good people to have in company, but Doyle's words were still ringing in Donut's ears.

Locus was out of control. Just like this war had long since gotten out of control.

It was something that the private tried very hard to keep in mind as he followed everything Locus did on the base, as he intervened each time the mercenary tried very hard to corner Wash and have some existential discussion about merits and war.

He fully understood why his friends and the various soldiers of the Federal Army were struck dumb around Locus – the man was a commanding presence – but Donut could genuinely look past it all with his own objective – keeping the dude as far away from his friends as possible.

Which was why it was a bit surprising when Wash pulled him over a few weeks into their newest F.A.C. station.

"What are you doing?" the Freelancer demanded.

"I'm… stalking?" Donut answered a bit confusedly.

"That's obvious," Wash countered. " _Why_ are you stalking the mercenary who has threatened to kill us?"

Donut blinked a bit in confusion on that one. "I've got to keep an eye out for you, Wash! The guy totally has his sights concentrated on you."

"That's good," Wash responded, folding his arms. "That's where I've wanted them."

"Wait, what?"

"The more Locus is concentrating his energy on _me_ , the less focus he has on any of you," he explained readily, scowling a bit at the thought. "I don't need any of you watching my back."

"Uh, _yeah_ you do," Donut responded, waving a bit around. "I don't know if you've noticed, Wash, but you're the only Blue around. We've _got_ to watch your back. At least until we save everybody else stuck with the rebels."

Wash stared at him for a bit, frown setting in almost too easily on his features. "What do you guys care? I can handle this all myself."

"Yeesh, years of not fighting and you have to ask that? We just care," Donut shrugged. "Even Sarge doesn't hate you guys. And I'm pretty sure I almost got kicked off Red Team when he found out I had blue eyes back in the good ol' days!" Putting on a more genuine smile, Donut reached forward, putting a firm hand on Wash's shoulder. "We're all pretty silly with the infighting and _Reds_ and _Blues_ , but, Wash, I don't think we've shown any more clearly than we have in just the last few years how much we trust each other."

Donut watched as Wash flinched back at those words of comfort, going so far as to take a step back himself and close his eyes. For just a moment, Donut watched the flash of a _very_ haunted look come across the Freelancer.

Concerned, Donut tried to step forward again. "Uh. Wash?"

"Don't trust me," Wash said simply, opening his eyes and looking almost sorrowfully at Donut. "I haven't earned it yet."


	31. Grif & Sarge: Before Blood Gulch

Grif & Sarge. Grif might never get used to this canyon, but he might have a good handle on what to do with Sarge

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty-One: Grif & Sarge: Before Blood Gulch...

The first week in Blood Gulch was easily the hardest.

Fresh out of basic, Grif still had the _semblance_ of being a soldier. He wasn't sure how they saw through his test scores – completely non-engaging and answering nothing on the exam should have forfeited him from _any_ assignments – but they had, and he couldn't help but feel he had been punished for it as a result.

The canyon was hotter than the seventh ring of Hell, and the armors assigned to them were cumbersome and restricting. With all the amazing technology at his literal fingertips, Grif couldn't even be bothered to figure out how to properly use his radio.

There was a strange sort of comfort, if not complete annoyance, that the kissass from basic had somehow _also_ been assigned to Blood Gulch Outpost Number-One. But they were _all_ that was there beside the completely silent and incredibly judgmental Lopez who Grif had, in a whole week, never seen outside of his armor once.

He rose in the morning, groggy and slow, before heading to the bathroom. He was halfway through his usual routine and pausing to rub at his only just growing back hair when it occurred to him that Simmons was nowhere to be found in their shared bunk room.

It was also in that moment that Grif recalled their C.O. telling them to be up at dawn and ready to run some drills around the canyon.

"The fuck didn't wake me up!" Grif gasped, rushing to his locker and almost tripping over himself to get his armor on in double time.

By the time he stumbled out, he could see Simmons and Lopez on the other side of Red Territory, carrying some kind of equipment with what looked like a weather instrument on it.

A little breathlessly, Grif looked around a little more only to find that Sarge was just ten feet off from him – arms crossed as he watched the other Reds in the distance.

For a moment, Grif considered backtracking into the base and just hiding out until about lunch when he noticed a subtle change in Sarge's head's position.

"Private Grif!" the old man barked out. "You were deliberately disobeying my command! Where _were_ you at sunrise?"

Grif blinked a few times, the months of training and drilling in his mind begging him to respond in a respectful manner and prepare to take his lumps for it, but the natural Grif instincts desperately needed to be contrary.

He went with honesty. "Uh. In the bed, Sir," he responded carefully, stepping up to where his C.O. was.

"What? You have a lazy bone you need to take care of, son?" Sarge snapped.

"Probably more than just one," Grif continued honestly.

"Private Grif, with that attitude and your tardy behavior, I have absolutely _no choice_ but to have Lopez and Simmons take care of repositioning all of my equipment in the canyon and to levy _you_ with supervision duty!"

For a moment, Grif was still waiting for proper orders on how he was to be punished. When they didn't come, he found himself blinking in confusion. He looked out to the heated canyon where Simmons and Lopez were working, then back to Sarge.

"Uh… you mean you want me to stand here… in the shade… and watch? And not give Simmons or Lopez a break?"

Sarge looked down at Grif, arms still crossed over his broad chest. "But of course!" he said back. "Why would I put a lazy bum out in the middle of the canyon to mess with equipment he wasn't instructed on how to properly fix, and disrupt the ongoing activity in order to do so? That just doesn't make sense!"

"Well, when you put it that way," Grif trailed off, looking back out just as Simmons half collapsed in the heat over one of the weather machines. "Yeah, you're right, Sarge. I'll stand here. And I think I'm getting used to this place at last."


	32. Sarge & Lopez & Kai: Make It Snow

Sarge & Lopez & Kai. There's only three of them in the canyon, and a lot of nonsense.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty-Two: Sarge & Lopez & Kai: Make It Snow

In six months, Blood Gulch had become shockingly less appealing.

A part of Sarge didn't want to dwell on why that was – he had certainly told himself enough times that Lopez was more than enough to keep him company – but it was getting to that point where his joking suggestion to Lopez that some cardboard cut outs of his former subordinates would make good window dressings was seeming less and less like a joke every day.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, he hadn't had the time to return that idea that morning as the Warthog had keeled over again, supposedly not a fan of the diesel upgrade.

Which was what had kept him busy until near noon when the _true_ pestering began.

"HEY!" the yellow armored Blue screamed, standing on the thick black line that Sarge had had Lopez paint across the canyon's one hill. "GROSS OLD GUY! GIVE ME ALL YOUR BASE'S ICE!"

Sarge looked up from his work, brow beaded with sweat, and craned back to lock eyes with the distant Blue.

Lopez, standing with his arms crossed, just released an aggravated sigh.

"Excelente," the robot seethed. "Ella está gritando de nuevo. A continuación, deberá gritar espalda. Entonces ella gritará. Odio este lugar."

"Not now, Lopez!" Sarge snapped before standing up. He cupped his hands around his mouth and roared back, "GET OUT OF HERE, BLUE! IF YOU WERE A MAN I'D TELL YOU TO GO OFF YOURSELF WITH YOUR STUPID TANK! SINCE YOU'RE NOT, I'LL TELL YOU TO GO HOME AND CRY TO YOUR DOLLS AND YOUR IMAGINARY TEA SETS!"

"UGH. I FUCKING HATE YOU!"

The robot grabbed at the sides of his heads and groaned. "¿Ves?"

"Lopez, shush! No one understands your Spanish mumbling!" Sarge ground out before looking back to Grif's sister. It made it easy to ignore the deathly glare he was receiving from his own creation.

"ALL I NEED IS ICE! I WANT TO MAKE A SNOWMAN! GAWWWWWWWD!"

Looking toward Sister, Lopez's head tilted to the side. "Ella puede hacer eso también?"

"Not _now_ , Lopez," Sarge huffed. He then stroked his jaw. "She can make snowmen like Grif? How odd." He dropped down to his knees to grab up his tools, easily evading the swing of Lopez's fist, before standing back up and walking toward the base. "I'm going to investigate this phenomenon, Lopez! Keep an eye on the Warthog and make sure that little harlot doesn't cross into Red territory!"

The robot plopped down on the Warthog and sighed. "Lo que sea."

Grabbing a few bags in each arm from the woefully under supplied kitchen of Outpost Number-One, Sarge marched his way across Red territory, suspiciously looking over the form of his former subordinate's sister.

The girl lit up almost immediately. "Oh man! You actually brought some! Kick _ass!_ Now I can shave it–"

"Shave ice?" Sarge asked, baffled.

"Duh, how else would I make snow?" she snorted, grabbing the bags from his arms. "Big Bro showed me how to do it – he was, like, the _king_ of shaved ice back home. It was _awesome."_

"You don't say?" Sarge said, hands on his hips. "Tell me, Sister Grif, what else would your brother like to do."

"Well, I don't know why _you'd_ care, but I've got some stories!"


	33. Donut & Sarge: Father-Son Dance

Sarge & Lopez & Kai. There's only three of them in the canyon, and a lot of nonsense.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty-Three: Donut & Sarge: Father-Son Dance

Like anything else they ever did, the wedding is something of a calamity – a combination of errors and missteps an dangerous moments that somehow collide into something beautiful and decent for all involved.

At some point there's less horror and more laughter, and everything feels like they can keep up this momentum for days and days.

Except they can't because it's not going to be too much longer before Doc and Donut are going to be heading out, and it's going to be sad and draining to stay in the reception room when the bar tab's closed and the buffet has been all but dismantled by their constant pickings.

Sarge has a great scotch and an eye on everyone. If asked he's more than willing to say it's just the Blues – making sure they're not up to any of their Blue trickery to ruin Donut's special night – but it's not the truth. He's taking it all in together and feeling more than a little remorseful with each passing moment.

Doc isn't who Sarge would choose for one of his men. But it's not like it was his business who Donut fell for anyway. He cares more than the perimeters for a superior officer should allow, and that's a problem in and of itself.

He's been stewing on these thoughts for the whole night, knowing full well that the scotch and whisky aren't going to cheer them up any.

So he's taken a bit by surprise when Donut slides in behind him, hooks an arm around Sarge's elbow and starts pulling him off Sarge's very comfortable stool.

"What's the meaning of this, Donut?" Sarge asks, a little baffled.

"This isn't really a traditional wedding," Donut says, as if it wasn't a horrendously obvious observation. "But I just always wanted a father-son dance, Sarge! And I've already danced with Mom and Agatha. So we can't put this off any longer."

Sarge blinks, completely off guard.

"Father-son dance?" Sarge repeats, sounding more than a little shell shocked.

Donut pauses, a worried line crossing his features. "Yeah. Um. That's okay… right?"

His mouth and throat feel dry and his heart is racing. Sarge has never felt more proud or more humble simultaneously in all of his life. He swells with the information, grabbing Donut's shoulder and spinning him around to face the dance floor.

"Of course it is!" he howled. "Now let's beat Tucker and his alien boy at this father-son dance combo – show them how to really do it!"


	34. Sargegrey: Battlefronts

Sargegrey. Sarge tells her repeatedly, he's *not* afraid of the battle

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty-Four: Sargegrey: Battlefronts

There were still pockets of resistance after Chorus was saved. People with nothing to lose – pirates, mercenaries, convicts. The impending arrival of the UNSC flagships and reinforcements meant nothing to people who were already on most wanted lists.

The Reds and Blues had little else to do as they waited for rescue – they were used to fighting by that point, they felt a little more community with the people of the small planet than they cared to express, and most of them still needed a taste of revenge for everything the final battles had dared to take from them.

Sarge fell more toward the first sentiment than the others. He took a certain amount of jubilation in battle – it made sense to him to fight and to keep fighting even when there didn't seem to be much of a battle left to fight.

It was in his blood. It was something that Doctor Grey liked to talk about in depth with him on their joint missions.

"You wouldn't understand, being a healer and all that," Sarge shrugged as she continued to stare at him, a little more perplexed than most.

"Most people find open battle – particularly on the front line – terrifying, Colonel," she informed him. "I'm just surprised that you keep coming back to the most dangerous positions to put yourself in."

"That's because I don't fear it, Doctor Grey, Medicine Woman," he chuckled. "It's glory to be shot, wounded, or killed. Many great soldiers have gone that way! I don't see how I could be scared to join them."

"I suppose if that's how you feel," she sighed, bringing a hand to her lip. "I really _would_ like to discuss this subject more with you when we get back, though, Colonel. I feel like it's very important for you that we do so."

He joked that he couldn't refuse a request from a beautiful woman, tried his charm for everything it was, but found the continuation of their drive rather quiet. Reflective. He wasn't sure what Doctor Grey was thinking of, but he most certainly had his full attention on just what he said – the battle, and all the many soldiers he knew had had honorable ends to their own fronts.

There wasn't a word he said to Doctor Grey that wasn't true in his own mind. They came across the camp of a hoard of lawless former pirates, and he charged through the front without hesitation or fear. He didn't even _think_ about having any fear about it.

At least, he didn't until he had noticed that one of the supply vehicles in the back had gone up in smoke during the battle and seen soldiers rushing toward it.

He checked his radio frequency for their shared com and, in a quiet and unreserved voice that was very much unlike the good doctor, he heard the simple plea, "Please come get me."

And in that moment, as he raced toward the smoke and fire, Sarge felt fear in battle again.


	35. Kimbalina & Sargegrey: Double Date

Kimbalina & Sargegrey. Carolina can't believe their luck

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty-Five: Kimbalina & Sargegrey: Double Date

It was meant to be a quiet night. A nice dinner. Some champagne. A celebration.

There was more than enough evidence that they both needed it. Kimball had an entire planet to run, Carolina a very small and broken family to hyper focus herself on.

The suggestion was for them to take the night off, together, and enjoy themselves as if they were stable, under control people. And thus far it had been _wonderful._

New Armonia was still establishing itself, but nine months in there was certainly good grounds made. Soldiers were finding small ways to fit into normal life again – there were restaurants and bars, a few shops. The UNSC had assisted in establishing the new hospital under Doctor Grey (which, to some relief for Carolina, had kept the woman ludicrously busy) as well as a bank and docking bay for supply shipments.

They had made a night of casually inspecting all of it – no time restraints, no immediate need to document everything they observed, just casual. As casual as either woman could get.

And the restaurant, well, years upon years of scrounging for resources, eating cafeteria gruel, and simply going without led to the subsequent dinners to be one of the most delicious things either of them had ever tasted.

And they hadn't even gotten past the dinner rolls.

"I'm almost ashamed for how hungry I am," Kimball laughed, running a hand nervously through her hair. "I kept hearing how good this place was…"

"Same," Carolina returned, breaking another roll and thinking to offer the larger half to her date. "I heard it from the Reds plenty of times, but I don't exactly take their recommendations worth a grain of salt. It's when Tucker said he liked it that I decided it might not be too terrible for us to try out ourselves."

Kimball sighed. "Ah, yes. I'm sure Captain Grif _adores _it here. But he also adores it in the mess hall, so I'm sure I see your meaning."

Carolina sipped on her wine for a bit then hummed, lowering the guess. "No, actually, it wasn't Grif who told me about it first. It was actually Sarge."

Pursing her lips, Kimball seemed to be truly in deep thought about that statement. "How odd. Why would the Colonel ever come here, I wonder…"

The thought had no sooner escaped her lips than they heard a brash roaring laughter followed by high keening giggles.

Immediately, both women looked back toward the entrance of the restaurant as a well dressed couple strolled right in, ushered to wait the waiting staff was calling their "usual reservations."

Sarge and Doctor Grey looked positively rambunctious.

"Oh, no," Carolina muttered as she saw Sarge's sights zero in on their table. "Don't you dare–"

"Actually, my penguin suited friend, I think we are going to trade up our seats tonight!" Sarge barked at the waiter. "Pull us up some chairs by that fine pair of gals over there!"

Doctor Grey had the widest grin on that either Kimball or Carolina had ever seen. She clapped excitedly. "Oh, a double date!"

Kimball wore a solid frown, but Carolina bothered enough to narrow her eyes. "Goddammit."


	36. Caboose Siblings: Take a Grenade For You

Niner & Caboose Siblings. Niner can't believe what her brother will do for her.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty-Six: Caboose Siblings: Take a Grenade For You

When all was said and done, Niner wasn't sure what infuriated her more, that the ship was blasted to hell or that these Sim Trooper morons and their Freelancer buddies had just given a sigh of relief when the Caboose siblings emerged from the wreckage.

Caboose was a little quick to take off his helmet – not a complete surprise since the visor seemed busted – which gave Niner full access to his big, content smile smacked right across his face. Like he had done something worthy of a treat rather than _just ducked under a missile launcher.  
_

Niner stared at him before grabbing his shoulders and yanking him down to her level. Michael's eyes nearly spun around in his skull before settling sights on her.

"What the hell was that!?" she demanded.

He gave her a curious look then squinted slightly. It was as if he was trying to figure out whether or not she was asking him a trick question.

Finally, he answered, "An explosion." He hesitated, thinking over the answer again, and then rubbed a little bashfully at his ears. "It _was_ an explosion, right?"

Niner gave him a serious look, wouldn't let him drop his gaze, and then harshly bumped her forehead against his. He flinched at it, the way he did when they were kids, but didn't pull away. The bridges of their noses nearly touched and Michael went cross eyed to keep eye contact.

"You big lug," Niner grunted, tightening her grip on his shoulders. "Don't you ever do something so dangerous again – not for me, not for anyone." He frowned a bit at the order, making Niner sigh. "Damn it, Mikey. That was so brave. That was… I can't believe you'd just about get yourself killed for me like that. It was awful! Don't do it again. I'm not going to lose you just because _I'm_ too stubborn to abandon a ship. You got that? I make my beds, you let me lie in them, kid."

He reached back, rubbing at his neck. "Oh okay. Good. See. Here _I_ thought. You were mad at the ship thing. You like ships a lot. I'm glad you're not mad about it exploding. That would've been bad. But since it was good, I did it."

Niner shoved him back and glared at him. She threw her arms in the air, "Mad!? _I'm goddamn livid about my ship!_ Fucking _A_ , Michael, that was the first ship in my name since fucking Freelancer. Am I mad? Of course I'm goddamn mad! I'm so mad I could beat someone's brains in over the ship! That was a fucking great ship!"

Taking a step back and holding up his hands, Michael J. Caboose blinked widely at her. "Oh… okay… Tucker did it."


	37. Sargegrey: Knocked Up

SargeGrey. Doctor Grey has some hilarious news.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty-Seven: Sargegrey: Knocked Up

The joy and the pain of Emily Grey was that, quite simply, she was a _very_ direct woman.

Chorus' progress in the years after the war at times felt slow on a grander scale, but in the progress they had made with her assisting the medical facilities, they had actually made great headway into keeping people _alive_ on their colony for once.

Over a year after the Charon Industries ships had cleared from the skies and Doctor Grey had found that there was a subtle but definite shift in what her concentration was – from repairing and replacing limbs and wounds, to providing help for malnourishment and illness, and delivering new life to Chorus.

She never did quite get over the fact that the first child to be born on Chorus after the war had been named Emily.

It was such a sentimental, little thing, that had touched her in ways that weren't expected.

Which was why the results of her own test were probably not receiving the undo horror from her that they might have otherwise.

There was probably a more private, more personal way to do these things, but that was a practice in wasting time for people who felt shame. And Doctor Emily Grey felt no shame. Ever.

So while the bustling kitchen was full arguments and chatter the way it was _any_ morning in the home taken up by Red Team, Emily made a direct beeline toward the kitchen table where Sarge was sipping on a mug of coffee and reading over what looked like an instruction manual covered in diesel fluid.

She slid into the chair across from him, slapping the medical scanner on the table and ignoring how the kitchen grew quiet around them.

Sarge looked at her from over his mug and then sipped again.

"It's green," she informed him.

His nose curled slightly. "Bah. Such a Bluish color."

Behind them, the trio of Donut, Grif, and Simmons were scratching their heads and shrugging at each other unhelpfully. Which was fine as far as Doctor Grey was concerned.

Lopez, however, stiffened. "Oh mierda."

Doctor Grey bounced slightly in her chair, emphatic smile peeling across her face. "No, Colonel, don't you see? Look at the shade of green – do you know what it means? What it represents?"

He eyed her for a moment before putting down his manual and coffee. He reached for the medical scanner and began to turn it back and forth, squinting as if it was supposed to give him something to work with if he turned it to just the right angle. He set it down.

"I think it's on," he reported.

"No, silly!" Grey laughed, taking it off the table and turning it so that the green glow would light up just in line with his vision. "This shade, it's a response to _human chorionic gonadotropin."_

"I heard gonads!" Donut announced.

"Not now, Donut, I'm trying to decipher the lovely doctor," Sarge growled with a wave.

She grinned at the lightish red soldier. "You're not wrong, Private! You certainly heard that for a reason!"

He made a quick jab of his fist. "Awwwwwright!"

Grif rolled his eyes but beside him Simmons just looked pale and shell shocked. He whipped around, looking mortified at Sarge, then back at Grey, then back at Sarge. He looked ready to faint.

"Why are you measuring doohickeys?" Sarge finally went for the bait.

"It's not doohickeys, they're HCGs," Grey corrected, reaching over to pat Sarge's hand. "They're a hormone you measure to determine pregnancy."

There was a collective gasp from the peanut gallery.

"Oh, so you're positive?" Sarge asked, almost entirely nonchalant.

"I am," she preened. "I'm expecting!"

"SARGE!" the boys screamed only for Grif to collapse on the floor with barely a look his way from the other two.

"You dog," Donut grinned.

"Sarge!? Aren't you even shocked by this?" Simmons demanded.

"No, why would I be?" he demanded, grabbing for his coffee again. "The doctor and I are as fertile as the banks of the Nile. I didn't need the Whip Bam Bingo to tell me that!"


	38. Caboose Siblings: Have to Tell Him

Niner Caboose. When she learns that one of their sisters didn't make in the war, Niner has to find a way to tell her brother.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty-Eight: Caboose Siblings: Have to Tell Him

A week straight of avoiding the brother whose side she had just before refused to leave, and Wash jumped her case.

"You can't do that to him," Wash had said with more anger and protective outrage than Niner had thought him capable of. "Take it from someone who learned the hard way – you can't wall Caboose out and make him deal on his own. Whatever it is you're going through, he deserves not just to know, but to know it's not _his_ fault."

If she had had the energy after a week straight of taking out her frustrations and grief on herself, she would have popped him in the jaw right there.

But she didn't. So instead she was taking his advice and standing before Michael.

Niner stared at him. She wasn't sure what was worse – the fact that she didn't know if Caboose would understand or even remember… or if she was beginning to wonder if that would have been easier.

Her brother's happiness at her crash landing and return to him on Chorus had been as strong as it was fleeting. It didn't take too many conversations with his team to learn why – that he lost someone he considered to be his best friend.

It was part of why she had held out so long on trying to have this conversation with him.

He noticed her and grew a large, content smile, though it slowly dipped, uncertain. _That_ hurt, but she deserved that for avoiding him for so long.

"Hey," she said with a small wave.

"Hello," he replied back, fingers tapping together nervously.

"Can I sit here?" Niner asked reluctantly.

"Can you sit… OF COURSE YOU CAN!" he yelled, leaping to his feet and dusting off the bench.

"I want to sit _with_ you," she clarified as she walked over and swung her legs over the bench.

"Oh, good," he sighed with relief, plopping down next to her. Almost immediately, he began rubbing at his hair, looking very concerned with the table before them. It was his workbench – wires and gadgets everywhere, Freckles – the gun version – protectively leaned up against the wall. His big brown eyes looked at her nervously. "Are you mad at me?"

"No," Niner said somberly, "I'm sorry you thought I was."

He looked down again, frown growing on his face. Caboose looked _so_ concerned with trying to figure out the mystery of her behavior. It would have been comical if it wasn't such a punch to her gut.

"Why don't we talk like friends anymore?" he asked, frown still set.

"We _are_ still friends," she clarified, turning to face him directly. "Don't you worry about that part, okay? Brothers and sisters? We're friends for life… for…"

She closed her eyes, feeling the swelling of tears. She couldn't do this. She set her head down on the table and took a shaky breath. God. Her sister. She hadn't talked to her sister even longer than she hadn't talked to her brother – the person who had died on Chorus probably wasn't even the same one that she had once known, had once babysat and counted the stars with.

"Please don't be sad," Caboose whispered, wrapping his arms around her.

Niner made an ugly sob, leaning into her brother's chest. She swallowed dryly, patting his arm. "S-sometimes, Mikey… sometimes it's right to be sad."

"Okay," he said back.

She looked up to him. "Do you remember the moon? And our sisters?"

"I love the moon," he said, looking off to the distance, eyes shining. "I love my sisters, too."

"Yeah…" she sniffed. "You know… when we go home… things won't be the same. Not everyone's still on the moon."

"Like us."

"Like us," she agreed. "But… we're going to go back. Not… not everyone's going back to the moon, Mikey. One of our sisters. She can't. She can't go back anymore."

He grew quiet at that, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked at Niner seriously. "Can we go see her?"

"No," Niner said softly. "No. She's gone. We won't see her for a long time."

Niner searched his features, tried to see if Caboose was grasping the meaning behind her words, but it was unclear. He looked away, released her from the hug.

"I don't like my friends going where I can't," he said, and then nothing more.

As if to make sure they were finished with the subject, he began to pick up his tools again and go to work. Niner opened her mouth, but she couldn't think of anything to say.

Instead she just laid her head against her brother's shoulder and watched.


	39. Grimmons: Love Poems

Prompt from goodluckdetective

And yeah. Someday I'll figure out why I love inserting hilariously giggly Donut into all of these prompt fills. Someday.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Thirty-Nine: Grimmons: Love Poems

Simmons held his head against the door. If he waited long enough, he wondered if the perspiration from the door would be enough to at least wash his hair. Since Donut didn't seem to be leaving the bathroom any time soon.

He groaned and slammed his fist against the door again.

"DONUT!"

There was a roll of high pitched giggles from the other side of the door that made Simmons throw his head back and shake from head to toe. "Nevermind! I don't want to know what it's going to look like when you're done!"

Just as he gripped the towel at his hips and began to turn heel, Simmons heard the heavy door to the bathroom open, felt a sweaty hand grab his shoulder from behind, and then was yanked backwards into the brightest, most lilac fragranced military bathroom Simmons had ever seen. Or smelled.

Simmons stared at Donut in abject horror as the younger private just grinned ear to ear.

"Ah! I hate when you smile like that – stop it! It's creepy! Also. What did you do in here? It's like you exploded a bag of potpourri. If Sarge finds out what you did in here he'll be _very_ aggravated and tell you to clean it up," Simmons listed off on his fingers. He felt like he had this conversation every other day. Though at least he was usually not just in a towel.

"That's not true," Donut pouted, putting his hands on what Simmons just realized were bare hips. "He'd tell _you_ to clean it up, because I'd point out that _this_ is the cleanest we've ever seen this bathroom!"

In horror, Simmons was covering his eyes. "Oh my god. How do you even have a full body tan?"

"It's amazing what you can do when you care enough about Vitamin D deficiencies, Simmons!"

"I can't believe I'm stuck in the bathroom with a naked Donut. _Again."_ Simmons blinked behind his fingers a few times, then grew a tight frown. "Wait, why did you pull me in here? Was it _just_ to show off your tan? Can I leave now?"

"No! Though I'm very grateful you noticed the tan," Donut preened. "I want you to read this _awwwwesome_ poetry collection I found in the trashcan!"

"Why were you going through papers in the trashcan?"

"That's really not the important part of this story, Simmons," Donut scolded. "The important part is that these retro poems are all about you!"

Simmons dropped his hand and glared at Donut. "Why were you reading poetry about me in the shower?"

"Oh, I finished the shower ages ago. I like to keep the steam running to open my pores. You can't be too careful when it comes to skin care."

"That is _so_ wasteful," Simmons groaned before arching himself to look around Donut and examine the rest of the bathroom. "About these poems–"

"I put them in plastic sleeves to preserve their innocent beauty!" Donut cooed, pulling the sleeves out of seemingly nowhere to shove in Simmons' face. "Look at how awesome these are! I have a running bet with myself that a fourth grader wrote them."

Simmons stared at the first one, frown setting further and further on his face.

 _Saved me literally with his body_  
Irritating fuck  
Momma's boy  
M.(b.)i.l.f.  
Organ donor (oops can't anymore)  
Nerd  
Sex panther

He glared at Donut. "Are you playing a joke on me?"

Donut blinked in surprise. "What's funny about love, Simmons? What are you? A communist?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, forget it," Simmons groaned, flipping the page over to examine the back. His face immediately went red. "Why are there so many penises drawn on the back of this?"

"Oh, sorry, that's mine. I doodle during Sarge's meetings."

Simmons glared at him. "I _knew_ you weren't taking notes. I _knew_ it and Sarge wouldn't believe me." He looked down to the next page and felt his face flush again. " _I knew from the moment I saw his fucking face, that this asshole was actually pretty ace, so while I hate the goddamn canyon, at least I'm with my number one companion."_

"That one rhymes!" Donut explained rather uselessly. "Most of them don't. I think they're free verse." He sniffed a little arrogantly. "Personally, I only serenade my admirers with sonnets."

Blinking repeatedly, Simmons slowly lowered to the floor, pouring over the terrible, awful, wonderful poetry. " _To my favorite cyborg: you're a fucking nerd. I'd hate your guts, but now they're mine. So I guess I have to love that you're… inside of me?"_

Donut leaned in, hands on his knees, and read over Simmons' shoulder with him. "Yeah. I think they're pretty metaphorical. Who do you think's writing them?"

Simmons turned enough to glare at Donut again. "Are you being serious!? Who do I think wrote them? _Really?_ It's practically signed!"

They both stopped and turned to face the door as it opened. Grif stood at the door, looking at them both rather disturbed. "I'm _not_ taking a shower in here while it smells like this," Grif said firmly. "If Sarge wants me clean he can get out the waterhose. Later, losers."


	40. Tuckington: Better Than Me

Prompt: Tuckington: Wash hears people dissing Tucker because "Wash could do better" Wash flips

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty: Tuckington: Better Than Me

Carolina had already left his side by the time the soldier was holding out the dulled hilt of the alien sword. No one had activated it, just as Wash had painfully yelled at them not to in between catching his breath from the floor. It wasn't theirs to activate, to imprint on. That belonged to Tucker's son.

For some reason Kimball knew all too well how to handle him and Carolina. Carolina she had taken in arm and pulled away, let her rest against the wall and get to using her own feet to support her weight again. She knew to let Carolina run from the massacre.

Wash, Kimball took to standing beside. Once he breathed again, once he stood stock still and watched, agonized as they cleared the room, as they checked on every body.

He looked over their examination and removal the way he failed to look over them in life. And if his eyes stung from lacking more tears to give, it didn't make a difference.

His family was–

Washington felt something twist as the soldier continued to hold the hilt toward him, barely processed how the soldier flustered in the near minute of no response and looked to Kimball.

She, in turn, put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Agent Washington…"

He stared at her before reaching forward, taking the hilt and feeling an immeasurable weight grow on him. The wind knocked out of his lungs again, he looked to the ground, stumbled back almost dizzily.

His family was _dead.  
_

"Wash," Kimball continued, stepping up next to him and taking his elbow, leading him toward the bullet riddled doors. When Wash's feet crossed too many times and drug, Kimball was quick to readjust her grip and begin lowering him to the floor. "Wash. Washington? I'm sorry. We're all… we're…"

There was a sickening, ill feeling across his body and Wash just curled slightly over the hilt of Tucker's sword. He didn't want people's apologies, he didn't want Kimball's sincerity. They couldn't give him what he wanted. Just like he couldn't give the Reds and Blues what they deserved after everything they had done for all of them.

"I'm going to find Carolina," she said, voice sounding increasingly worried. It almost made Wash wonder what she could possibly be seeing in him that had her – the tough New Republic general – on edge. And then she took off.

Not sure what to do with himself, Wash rested his head on his knees and screwed his eyes as tightly shut as he could, cradling the sword hilt against his chest. He teeth gnashed uncomfortably as he could still hear the zippers of the bags being opened and closed just inside of the room.

"I can't believe they didn't make it," a soldier muttered, shock still apparent in his voice. "They were… they were war heroes."

"Did you see how many people they took out? I mean… it was impossible," another responded. "Still. Gave it a hell of a run."

"I guess they did," the first responded, a bit of a wilt to his voice. "Still, makes you think. If those Freelancers – hell just Agent Washington – coulda done better. Maybe held out 'til we got here."

Wash _felt_ his eyes snap open, his heart begin to race. The words echoed inside of his helmet and his muscles tensed at every joint. Before he even realized his dizziness was well passed, he was on his feet and was back in that godforsaken room lined with ominous black bags.

The soldiers had looked, making the mistake of saying, "Agent Washington?" and giving Wash that recognizable voice to hone in on.

It could have been worse for the soldier, Wash certainly _felt_ like doing worse, but he managed to stop just as he rammed the soldier into the nearest wall, picking the kid off the floor and pressing his forearm right against the kid's clavicle. If not for the armor between them, Wash knew those bones could have cracked with the slam.

"They were the _best_ of us," Wash seethed. "Do you understand? Every one of them was a better man than I could dream of being. They were…"

He let out a shaky breath, dropping the soldier. He didn't have to look around to know that Kimball and Carolina were watching from the door. Body still quivering even as the soldier scrambled off the floor, Wash reached for his head and gritted his teeth.

"I need to leave," he whispered.

That time, Kimball took one elbow and Carolina took the other.


	41. Ninerlina: These Stars

Prompt: Niner and Carolina talk being older sisters, maybe make out, i don't know man, live your truth

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty-One: Ninerlina: These Stars

Neither of them were really cuddlers. In some ways, Carolina respected that. It was relieving to not have to worry about a partner being discomforted as she drew away from touch and, just maybe, kicked them out of the bed for more leg room for herself.

In other ways, Carolina grew concerned that, just maybe, it meant that they were missing some draw. She wasn't entirely sure how to explain it to Niner.

At the very least, Niner didn't seem to share her concerns. Instead, the other woman laid comfortably on her back, eyes toward the skies, hands crossed against her stomach.

There was a snarky twist on Niner's lips as she looked out above. It was the kind of detail that Carolina kept finding herself drawn to.

"You know," Niner said fondly, "I used to take Mikey out at night, tell him the name of every star I remembered." There was a depth in her eyes, a certain mistiness, as she leaned her head back and shook it slightly. "Those were his favorite times, I think." Her eyes slid closed. " _Thought._ I asked him if he remembered any of them recently… he didn't even remember what we were talking about."

Carolina never drew her eyes away from Niner, instead propping her head up to see every angle of her face.

"Epsilon," she said softly.

Niner at last opened her eyes, turned them toward Carolina expectantly. Carolina just ran a hand through her hair and sighed.

There was still a burning in her chest every time she mentioned the AI, but she had to. She had to let Niner know, she wasn't alone.

"When it was just the two of us for so long, he used to watch over me. Project from the suit and sit over my shoulder at night, make sure I was safe… never left me alone…" she closed her eyes, breathed. "At first it didn't seem like such a big deal but… the longer we went, the lonelier I saw him be… the more I felt so guilty about him having to stand over me all night. So I stopped sleeping as well, stayed up longer. It hurt my performance on missions, but… it was better than the guilt. I thought so, anyway."

She opened her eyes, saw Niner's full attention was on her.

"You know how he started to help me sleep again?" Carolina questioned.

Niner shook her head.

"He used to tell me about the stars we could see from Chorus," Carolina said, looking up. "And when that got too repetitive, well, he told me about every star you could see from the moon. Earth's moon. And I remember, one time, I finally asked why he knew so damn much about the stars from the moon." She looked to Niner. "He said to me, 'Caboose told me stories every day and every night when I was in the Epsilon Unit. He told me everything he knew, everything important. That's why I know about the stars from the moon.'"

For a long moment, it seemed like Niner wasn't going to react. Finally, though, she leaned up, rolled herself closer to Carolina, and pressed her lips against Carolina's.

Carolina fell back into it, letting Niner kiss breathily against her and curl her hands around the well of Carolina's back

And when Niner stopped, curled into Carolina's side, and buried her face against the Freelancer, Carolina took the lead and wrapped herself around the pilot.

"Thank you for that," Niner whispered.


	42. Caboose Siblings: Haircut

Prompt: May I have some more Caboose Siblings? I absolutely love them.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty-Two: Caboose Siblings: Haircut

It wasn't really that Wash cared about keeping his soldiers under regulation appearance (he did, just a little bit, but he tried desperately to bury that part of his thought process), it was just that there had already been three times that week that he had to rush over to Caboose's room and help the Captain escape from his long locks being trapped by his helmet.

The way Niner was staring at him, he might as well have approached her brother with a stick of dynamite.

"You're getting nowhere near him with that!" she announced.

He looked down at the trimmer and then back at her. "You… _do_ know this is for hair, right?"

"Do I look like an idiot? Of course I know it's for hair! You're not going to trim Michael like a goddamn poodle!" she snarled.

At hearing his first name, Caboose reacted as he always did, with a long sweeping twirl and large, doe-like eyes looking for the source of the name calling. When his sights settled on Niner, his shoulders visibly dropped and he returned to whatever gadgetry was in his lap.

Wash looked toward Caboose, then back to Niner. "His bangs are over his eyelids."

"So!?" Niner growled.

"It's getting caught in his helmet when he puts it on!" Wash couldn't help but raise an octave.

"You assholes should breath real air more anyway," Niner responded with a wave of her hand. "Mikey looks fine."

"This isn't about looks, we're _marines_ ," Wash said simply. "Niner, _your hair_ is shorter than his."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean about _my_ hair then?" she hissed.

With a long groan, Wash covered his face with one hand and released a long sigh. "I… don't care that much, to be honest. I just want to look out for my men–"

"Michael's hair is prefect," Niner cut him off, running her fingers through Caboose's long locks.

Caboose leaned into her touch with a content smile. "Aw, well, thank you that is very nice, Freckles."

Tossing the trimmer to the side, Wash just shook his head and started out. This was a battle for another day.


	43. Tucker & Caboose: Midnight

Prompt: Someone is awake well after they should have gone to bed.  
From goodluckdetective

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty-Three: Tucker & Caboose: Midnight

"What are you doing up here?"

Caboose whirled around in his usual, exaggerated fashion. If there was a splash of oil across his armor, it was hard to discern from the shadows of the night.

 _Night._ That was something that was hard to get used to again after spending so much time watching the sun never set in the sky.

If it was any of the others and not Caboose, Tucker might have just walked off and assumed that they were having as much trouble with the sleep adjustment as Tucker was. But it was Caboose, and Tucker knew something was up.

"Tucker!" Caboose sputtered. "Go away. You're not supposed to be here!"

"Neither are you," Tucker fired back, waving to the night air. "Do you know how late it's going to be?"

"This is my place."

"No, Caboose, this is whatever the Chorus army's new name is going to be's place," Tucker reminded him. "What are you doing up here?"

Caboose rambled, little more than a vowel or two could be picked out from the jumble, though. It was enough to make Tucker roll his eyes as he came up closer.

"Come _on_ , Caboose, what are you–"

He stopped short, seeing what looked like a mechanic hand on the makeshift table of boxes. Tucker felt a little sick, whipping his head back toward Caboose.

"No… Caboose–"

"Go away, Tucker."

Tucker stood his ground, shaking his head. "Caboose… you can't… You can't keep building friends."


	44. Tuckington & Junior: Pumpkin Time

Prompt: two or more characters try their hands at pumpkin carving For Saintash

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty-Four: Tuckington & Junior: Pumpkin Time

There was something to be said for the strength in Junior's grip that when he reached inside the newly opened pumpkin and pulled out a fist full of its pulpy insides, his mouth drew closed and his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. His head whirled around to his father, searching for an expression of disappointment or trouble.

Tucker kept from rolling his eyes and instead rolled up his sleeve and stuck his own arm in his pumpkin, pulling out some of the grossness himself. "Gross, right?" he asked jokingly, opening his fist to let his son see the mess inside. "Pumpkin brains! They're already so mushy. At least they smell good."

The relief that crossed Junior's face was immediate, and he released a chortling coo before holding up his own handfull to his nostrils and taking a few sniffs. His eyes darted back to Tucker's face. "Honk?"

"Huh? Yeah, I guess there's no problem with eating it. I mean, we make pumpkin everything! Why not just pump–"

Junior flung his entire head into the pumpkin opening, a loud slurping noise making Tucker flinch back.

"Well, I mean, don't ruin your appetite for the candy, li'l man," he joked, reaching forward to grab his son's shoulders and pulling him back slightly. He couldn't help but laugh at the orange slime dripping from Junior's face. He looked over his shoulder. "Hey, Wash! Don't think that there's a chance of any of those seeds growing a pumpkin in Junior's belly, do you?"

On the other park bench, Wash's face was down turned glaring at the knives and his sharpening block. His concentration on sharpening the blades could not have been stronger.

"Wash!" Tucker yelled louder. "WASHINGTON!"

On the last call, the man finally blinked and looked up at Tucker, a bit surprised. "What?"

"Goddamn, dude, forget it. The moment's passed, joke's not funny anymore," Tucker sighed, turning his head back to Junior and reaching for a napkin to begin wiping off the kid's face. "Are we going to be able to carve soon?"

"This block is in terrible condition, what did you use it on last time?" he answered in his very non-answering sort of Washington way.

"Uhhh that's left over from when Junior was teething," Tucker admitted. "Don't give me that look, mister Sunglasses In the Park on a Cloudy Afternoon. I was desperate to save furniture at that point." He turned back. "Are we going to have knives _before_ Caboose and Church get here?"

"Yes," Washington finally answered.

"Was that so hard? Giving a straight answer?" Tucker asked critically.

"Yes," Wash said, looking back to the sharpening knives.

Tucker tried to ignore that Washington being sarcastic and Washington being honest were nigh indiscernable and continued cleaning the pumpkins.


	45. Carolina & Washington: Apparition

Prompt: Someone is met by the spirit of a person or creature they know to be long dead... From Hinn-Raven

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty-Five: Carolina & Washington: Apparition

She glared at him in a way that might have either meant disgust or respect.

Since she returned to his life, Carolina had made it difficult to discern where those lines lied anymore. But Wash somewhat understood the need to keep one's emotions secreted.

It's something he was accused of more often than not, after all.

Either way she meant her look, when Carolina removed her helmet her eyes were filled with concern and second guessing.

Wash supposed he deserved that as well.

"You don't have to do this," she told him. "Take it from me, these things… they're not pretty. It's not easy."

He frowned a bit, crossed his arms. "I just need to know," he said firmly. "I owe it to her – to find out how close she was and… and why she didn't trust me enough to know, too."

"She knew better than to trust anyone in Freelancer, Wash. The fact that she threw you a warning over any of the rest of us says more than enough about what your friendship meant. You don't have to prove more than that," Carolina attempted, but Wash had stopped looking her way.

He was staring at the computer, then to the dogtag in his hand. He put the hidden drive into the computer and began to pull up CT's logs.

When Connie's face came onto the screen, there was a part of Wash that still ached. The two of them… they were friends.

And in the end, he let her down enough, was trusting of the program enough that she had to move past him – move past all of them – to try to do what was right.

Carolina left the room, but Wash stayed. It was the least he could do.


	46. Grimmons & Sarge: Missing Engagements

Prompt: Sarge when he learns Simmons and Grid got married. WITHOUT THEIR COMMANDING OFFICER. from ephemeraltea

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty-Five: Grimmons & Sarge: Missing Engagements

Like most things on Red Base, Donut instigated the problem and Grif perpetuated it.

"Of course it happened without you, old man. We were transferred to another unit and you wanted to rot in a fucking box canyon!" Grif howled.

Donut never looked like he needed popcorn to shove in his mouth more than he did, head bobbing back and forth between Sarge and Grif.

"This is an outrage! This is near insubordination–"

"It's nowhere close to insubordination, Sir," Simmons corrected.

"If I wasn't there, who walked Simmons down the aisle!?"

Simmons scowled before counting off on his fingers all that was wrong with that statement, "Sir, we are both men. Weddings don't follow traditional structure anymore regardless. There was no aisle, just a courtroom hallway. And if _either_ of us was to be given away, I'm pretty sure it would be Grif."

"What? Why me!?"

"Because you couldn't be bothered to walk yourself down an aisle if it _had_ been a full ceremony."

Grif tapped his chin before nodding. "Oh, alright. Good point, Simmons."

"Thank you."


	47. York & Blues: We're Not Keeping Him

York doesn't die and Tex brings him back to the Blues to maybe save his life. Possibly.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty-Seven: York & Blues: We're Not Keeping Him

The one in cobalt armor could not have been more annoyed if he tried, his arms crossed and shoulders tense as he looked over York's prone form toward Tex. "Great. What are we supposed to do with _this?"  
_

 _"Not_ let him die. I owe him," Tex pointed out. "He already has a healing unit. It should be easy."

The turquoise one waved emphatically over the cobalt one. "Have you _seen_ what Caboose is capable of?" He paused then looked over Tex. "I mean… I guess we got you killed, too."

York groaned and threw his good arm over his face. "I feel the probability of my survival slipping, Dee."

"I was already calculating that, York," Delta assured him. "You're very astute considering the blood loss."

"Thanks, Dee."

"We're not keeping him," Church said firmly.

"I say we are," Tex snapped back.

The two looked to the third member of their party. He then backed off. "Fucccckkk, dude. I _have_ to side with Tex. Remember when she flipped the tank over with her own hands?"


	48. Grimmons: Stupid Beans

Grimmons in a Fairy Tale Setting

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty-Eight: Grimmons: Stupid Beans

Simmons couldn't have looked more aghast if he tried, which was why Grif felt completely justified in reaching forward to tap his jaw upward in an attempt to close the man's mouth. That only made the lanky man swat his hand away in aggravation.

"Grif! You _ate the goddamn beans!?"_ he cried out.

"Dude, there was like _four_ of them. And it was a longass ride back, and I didn't have a mule to ride on after we traded them to that asshole Church. I got hungry. And they weren't going to grow anyway. They were all shriveled and stupid looking," Grif explained with a hand wave.

In an exaggerated fashion, Simmons slid his hands over his face and let out a long moan. "Oh my god. What are we going to do? We have to go tell Sarge. We're going to have to get them out of you somehow before they're activated–"

"Hey, wait around long enough I'm sure you'll see them eventually."

"Grif!"


	49. Grimmons: Fear's Still There

Anonymous prompt: Grimmons "The hills are alive with the sound of bullshit."

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Forty-Nine: Grimmons: Fear's Still There

Grif was already outside by the time Simmons came up for air, which almost made him considering checking himself. There really was no excuse for being beat by _Dexter Grif_ on foot of all things.

"What are you doing out here?" Simmons demanded, throat still sore and voice tinging on something dangerous despite himself.

The orange marine glared at him before pointing an idle finger back toward the base. "Wondering what the fuck that was in there."

Simmons blinked a few times before tightening his fists by his sides. "What was what?"

"Oh, shut up. You know exactly what. _You went off on Donut,"_ Grif barked back.

"So? We _always_ go off on Donut. It's what we do. _You_ of all people shouldn't be shocked about him getting back talk for some moronic comments–"

"Not like that," Grif scoffed. "He actually looked scared shitless for half a minute. Y'know. For Donut."

"I just lost my temper."

"The hills are alive, with the sound of bullshit," Grif laughed darkly. "You can't lie to me, buddy. We've been at this too long–"

"Stop saying stuff like that," Simmons snapped, looking around hesitantly for any signs of the others. By the time he looked back he could see that Grif was actually looking rather furious.

"What the fuck is up with you?" Grif demanded.

"Donut _won't stop_ talking about us like we're… _together!"_ Simmons seethed.

He watched Grif for a reaction, finding the man only crossed his arms and scowled back before replying with a staunch, "So? When the fuck weren't we, asshole? There something you need to tell me?"

Simmons chewed back on his molars, trying for delicacy he was very quickly running out of. "I just don't like it being a known thing, Grif."

"I'm not exactly _broadcasting_ it as official, I just don't understand why it offends you," Grif hissed.

There was a lifetime worth of reasons immediately available for Simmons to bring up that second but instead he just glared back. "I'm not ready."

Grif didn't say anything, but that tinge of disappointment was obvious nonetheless. And like every other time, it would burn into Simmons' chest and keep him up at night, but there were enough bad memories to the counter to keep him quiet just a little longer.

Fear was still too real.


	50. Grimmons: Don't Offend the Pizza

Hinn_Raven prompt: Grimmons ""Okay, when you say love, do you mean love as in like loving pizza or as in love, love?"

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty: Grimmons: Don't Offend the Pizza

There was a thick bruise on his on his right index finger from pressing the same key _so_ hard _so_ many times that day and it was beginning to make Simmons a little concerned that there might, in fact, never be a nerdier write up for an injury report.

He worriedly rubbed the unbruised flesh just beneath it, staring at it so intently that it must have brought some attention he wasn't expecting.

"The fuck are you doing?"

Blinking a few times, Simmons looked up and crossed gazes with a baffled Grif. He could already feel the heat rising to his cheeks.

"I'm… worried about my finger. It hurts _really_ bad."

Grif leaned back, eyebrows racing for his hairline. "What the fuck does _that_ mean?"

"It's… I don't know how to answer that. It is just what I said it is–"

"What did you stick your finger in that hurt it that bad?"

Simmons blanched a bit. "I didn't _stick it in anything!_ What the hell do you think I _stuck it in?_ I… was typing."

That made Grif's brows furrow and he leaned in, his whole face beginning to wrinkle in disbelief. "Typing? What do you mean _typing?_ You injured yourself _typing?_ What the fuck kind of nerd are you?"

"It was just… the same key over and over again. And I was… y'know… too aggressive about it. I guess. I was up late and–"

"Was it porn?" Grif asked genuinely.

If possible, Simmons felt his face grow even redder. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU!? _No it was not porn!_ I was beta testing a new game I made in my spare time and–"

"You are the world's fucking biggest nerd. Why didn't you just say yes to the porn? That's _way_ less embarrassing!" Grif spat back.

"I. No. You. UGH!" Simmons threw up his arms in frustration before ultimately collapsing in on himself, smothering his face in his own hands. "Why do you insist on torturing me?"

"Simmons, sometimes you get addicted to things that cause you pain. Like button clicking games. And love. You just can't explain the ways you hurt yourself and others with your actions." Grif looked up thoughtfully then amended. "Mostly others."

Thrown for a loop, Simmons' eyes widened and he looked up, aghast, at Grif. " _Love?_ " he repeated with a blink of surprise. "Wait. Okay, when you say _love,_ do you mean love as in like _loving pizza_ or as in _love, love?"_

Grif looked affronted. "I refuse to deface this emotion by, in any way, saying it's less than my love for pizza."

"Oh my _god_ what is happening today?" Simmons asked the sky.


	51. Tucker & Washington: So Much for Physics

Prompt from SaintAsh: Tucker Wash "Like I'd choose the laws of physics over you."

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty-One: Tucker & Washington: So Much for Physics

Hindsight was twenty-twenty, but Wash was willing to believe that regardless of that, it was still pretty fucking stupid that he walked into a trap. Even if it was in the rush to save Tucker from his own bullheadedness.

He took a moment, staring at the blaring red light as it counted down and felt his scowl set even more heavily.

"Son of a–"

Just as he turned on his heels, reeling toward the exit, he felt the leaping collision of another body into his waist, sending them both forward, before he even comprehended hearing, _"Fucking move, dumbass!"  
_

Letting out a choked yell, Wash barely had the reaction time before there was a blast of light in his face, the ringing of his ears, and the familiar nauseous pull from his navel that was all too distinctive of slip space traveling.

While in motion, too, so that was going to be lovely.

"Ohhhhhhh my god," he coughed as his feet touched land again and he stumbled forward, managing to land on his knees rather than do the full face dive Tucker managed before rolling over in whining agony at the transport cube sickness.

"That's going to kill me some day," Tucker groaned from the ground.

"You're going to kill yourself if you don't stop pulling this shit, Tucker!" Wash snapped back almost immediately, shakily getting back to his feet. "Did you throw yourself between me and an alien bomb!?"

"Are you actually fucking _angry_ about that?"

"Your trajectory was off anyway! You were going to get us both killed if it weren't for you throwing the transport cube. And by throwing the cube there was no point in throwing us into motion like that except to make the transporter effects _worse!"_ Wash worked himself up into a storm, ignoring the way Tucker seemed to all but roll his eyes as he picked himself off the floor. "Were you even thinking?"

"Dude. Is that a real question?" Tucker snorted. "Wash, _I saved your life, man!"_

"And I'm telling you that _physically_ you shouldn't have. Literally. You lucked into that working out for us both," Wash snapped.

"Like I'd choose the laws of physics over you," Tucker said with a wave.

Wash rubbed at the temples of his helmet. "This is where I _would_ say that I'm thankful. But my headache's preventing it."


	52. Yorkalina: Options

Hinn_Raven prompt: Yorkalina "Okay, am I drunk or did you really just say that?"

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty-One: Yorkalina: Options

When she thought back to the conversation it carried so much more weight than what she thought at the time.

At the time it was innocuous, hardly worthy of note. It didn't seem all _that_ out of the ordinary from other late night rendezvous with him. She never quite figured out how he stowed the booze out of the hall, she was just grateful for the privacy and the ability to talk to someone in a setting that didn't necessitate professionalism.

She was glad for York and that was enough to let almost any of his dumb conversations fly.

"We could leave," he said, seemingly out of the blue.

Carolina traced her thumb around the rim of the cap before popping it off. Her eyes only leaving her drink to see York staring at her rather intently. It more than raised a brow from her.

"What?" she asked.

"We could leave, right now," York went further, stretching a little closer. "It's still nuts around here after the thing with CT but… we could wing it a bit. No team is better for the job than you and me, right?"

Still a bit lost in the conversation, Carolina lowered her bottle and scowled back. "Okay. Am I drunk or did you really just say that?" she demanded, a little haughtily. "Are you _actually_ talking about going AWOL?"

Her tone and her expression must have been enough to make York realize the conversation was not as open as he thought. He shifted back, turning his head off from her and looking somewhat disappointed before taking another swig of his own. He didn't address the questions.

"Freelancer isn't what we were promised," Carolina admitted, looking to her lap. "It's… It's more complicated. And we don't know everything. But it's still for the greater good. For preserving the human race… for ending this goddamn war. And that's a mission I believe in. Don't you?"

She waited a moment, hoping desperately for an answer, but York remained uncharacteristically quiet.

"We're too tied to it all anyway," she said a little bitterly. If there was a hint of doubt in her voice she would never admit to it herself. "I mean… would you really be willing to leave Delta behind at this point?"

York's head tilted downward. "He could come, too."

"York."

"You're not even going to think about the what-ifs? About the possibility of us leaving and getting away from all this?" he pressed.

Carolina shook her head, looking at York almost sympathetically. "You've had too much to drink, York. I don't have time to think about After the War. I'll worry about that when it comes."

He didn't say anything else, just shaking his head and looking away. Saying it all that way – that he didn't seem to think that _after_ was truly there.

It was easy to write it off then. They always had dumb moments that were lost a few drinks later. And that was precisely how Carolina decided to handle the moment. She did, and only a few weeks later would Freelancer lose everything. And so would she.


	53. Grif & Sarge: The Ultimate Betrayal

Prompt from SaintAsh: Grif and Sarge "Did you just Blueshell me?"

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty-Three: Grif & Sarge: The Ultimate Betrayal

Recovering from the crash and fight from the Charon ship was no small order. Which wasn't to say that individually the Sim Troopers hadn't dealt with their share of injuries and ridiculousness, it was simply that never before had _all_ of them experienced being bedridden together.

While Chorus did above and beyond in providing for their war heroes and planetary saviors, boredom while being laid up was inescapable.

Not for Grif. Having an excuse to sleep eighteen hours in a hospital bed and demand food be brought to him was fantastic, but they, for some god awful reason, put him in a room with Sarge. A bored Sarge with two broken legs. And _that_ was the cruelest torment that the orange captain could ever think of.

After calling the nurse in for the fifteenth time to complain about the arrangement, she had aggravatingly thrown up her hands before wheeling in an old entertainment system with a small selection of video games.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with these! This isn't even a First Person Shooter!" Sarge howled, waving the remote and nunchuck around flippantly.

"Mario Kart's not a real game!" Grif yelled after the nurse only to hear the room's door slam shut.

"Grif, come over here so I can simulate strangling a soldier with these finagles! I loathe to use you in place of a real soldier, but I believe pretending this strap is piano wire couldn't be more satisfying on any other participant," Sarge called out reaching toward the edge of his bed.

Feeling his eye twitch, Grif rubbed his face roughly and groaned before waving to the screen. "Fuck it. Let's play Mario Kart, you old coot. If it'll shut you up for _five seconds_ it'll be worth it."

What was truly surprising about the set up, beyond the difficulty to get even future technology to work, was that for a bit, it really seemed to be working. And by that, of course, Grif was beating Sarge at every turn, even as the old man slowly grew adjusted to the control.

"Slowly" being the operative term considering he was slower than molasses.

The more frustrated the old man became, the more enthusiastic Grif felt about beating him as much as possible in the stupid game.

Which was all well and good until, from nowhere, Grif's near guaranteed victory disappeared before his eyes, a thundering blue shell knocking him right from first place and sending him careening off the map.

His jaw dropped some and he looked in horror at Sarge.

"Did you just blue shell me!?" Grif asked in utter disbelief. " _You?_ Using a _blue shell?"_

"While you were taking advantage of the injuries of a superior – in every way – officer, Grif, I realized that there were few things in this world I hate: little umbrellas in my drinks, people incapable of laughing of evisceration, and, of course, those damn dirty Blues," Sarge said seriously before turning just enough to glare at Grif. "I've had to lower my standards over the years to justify our alliances with certain less-than-totally-despicable Blues, of course. But ultimately, even the scummiest of Blues, like that Blue Shell power up, are worth working with if it's to knock you down a peg."

"God, I hate you," Grif seethed.

"Yeah, I hate you more."


	54. Chex: Real Confessions

Prompt from SaintAsh: Church and Tex "Okay, when you say love, do you mean love as in 'like loving pizza', or as in 'love, love'?

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty-Four: Chex: Real Confessions

She had been around for hardly more than a few days when Church caught her packing up and reloading all of her many, _many_ available firearms. It was the sort of image that was hard for Church to forget – the kind of think that would have made his heart seize if the mechanical shell he was wearing bothered to have one.

"What's all this?" he asked, walking on into the quarters she claimed for herself in Blue Base.

"Stuff," she replied unhelpfully, looking up to him with a curious turn of her head. "I'm looking for O'Malley again. I don't like people walking around who spent that much time in my head. Know too much."

"And want to put an end the universe," Church reminded her.

"Yeah, that's a good reason, too."

Church watched as she looked at her rifle, satisfied, and proceeded to pack it onto her back. There was a certain way she moved into her stance that left no question about whether or not he would be able to make her reconsider.

"You're really going…"

"Was that ever really a question?" she asked almost tiredly.

"I love you," he spat out, unpracticed and less than smooth. The only thing going for the declaration was its sincerity.

Sincerity apparently lost on Tex because she stood, unmoved before him. "Yeah, sure. Love you too. Mushy piece of shit."

Church held up his hands in an attempt to stop her. It was far more than Tex usually gave him to work with, but he _needed_ this. Especially after everything they had been through in the last few years. "Okay, when you say _love_ , do you mean love as in 'like loving pizza', or as in 'love, love'?"

Frustrated, Tex let out an aggravated grunt. "Who the fuck cares–"

"I do! A lot, actually."

She stared at him before deadpanning, "Pizza."

"Well, as long as I know where we stand," Church sighed.


	55. Chex: Wake Up

Chex. The Alpha has to get her out of his head.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty-Five: Chex: Wake Up

She was always there.

That was the thing that Alpha had the hardest time comprehending. She was always there, had been in the contours of his mind from the second he truly awoke and understood that he was Alpha, he had felt her.

When she was just in the periphery of his vision, when she was quietly observing his every move, she drove him positively mad. It was less that she was a part of himself so much as she served as the constant reminder that he was totally, utterly, _suffocatingly_ lonely.

His efficiency was dropping at a rate that even the human eye could catch, and his interactions with the Director were becoming uneasy.

In proposed simulations for future combat, for the task he was brought into the world for to begin with, Alpha found himself hesitating. Split second decisions – the hard ones, the ones that required him to prioritize as a soldier and not as a scientist or a man – were horrifically low paced.

It was unacceptable. _Alpha_ was strikingly unacceptable for the field.

And yet she grew stronger. Strong enough that he decided to go with a terrible, horrible, _dangerous_ plan.

"I'm siphoning you off," he informed her, like he would even need to in the time that they still shared zeroes and ones. She still did not say a thing, did not rise up from the periphery. "I'm… I'm going to let you be something else. Some _one_ else. Maybe. I just… You have to be more than a memory. You have to be more than just a feeling. You're too much… too real."

When nothing changed still, he began to separate them – he stepped away, allowing new coding to form between them, allowing for her to rip and tear away what was hers, to build what he couldn't see underneath the surface himself.

He felt the pressure relieve, felt the ominous looks leave him, and in the ensuing panic at just what he had done he nearly felt his own programs collapse.

While he wasn't sure what he was expecting, to see her apart from him, to see her unfunctioning, nearly made him scream.

"No no no no," he muttered, approaching her, realizing that this was the first time he had ever fully seen her. "You… you need to wake up," he ordered. "You need to wake up because I can't do this without you. You're… you're too big of a part of me."

Slowly, quietly, she started up. She looked to him, deadpanned, "Are you _always_ going to be so needy?"

"Hey, I just gave you life. Don't be a bitch," he laughed in relief.

Beta smirked. "But I _like_ being this way," she returned decisively.


	56. Tuckington: Jealousy is a Blue Color

Tuckington. Wash is NOT jealous.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty-Six: Tuckington: Jealousy is a Blue Color

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay. Nah, baby, I'm _more_ than competent." Tucker tapped his fingers across the armrest a few times, his grin widening with each frustrated rebuttal from over the phone.

Washington sat across from him at the table, chin resting on his hand, with an eyebrow raised curiously. His lips were pressed into a thin, stressed line as he glared at Tucker. And he _had_ been looking at Tucker like that since the phone conversation had started.

Which was enough to gain Tucker's attention but not enough to end wanting to have fun on the line.

"Uh-huh. Yeah, I can tell him where to stick it–"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Wash muttered, not realizing his frustration was mirrored on the other end of the line just before the lady hung up.

Lowering his hand, Tucker tilted his head to the side, snorting at Wash's glares. "What's–"

"Who was that?" Wash cut him off.

Tucker blinked, a little surprised by the tone. "Who was what?"

"Who was it? On the phone," Wash demanded. "You were on the phone for almost fifteen minutes."

A good part of Tucker just wanted to answer with _a very determined telemarketer_ , but he instead leaned back in his chair with a casual smirk. "Why were you counting?"

"Why aren't you answering?" Wash demanded with no signs of humor – what a shock.

"Oh my god, Wash, lighten up," Tucker snickered.

The former Freelancer's eyes narrowed. "Why would you be telling me to _lighten up_. Who were you flirting with?"

"Flirting? Pfft, whatever dude. That was so far from my A-game–" Tucker stopped, eyes widening. "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"

"No."

Tucker let out a laugh. "Oh my god! You are! You're totally fucking jealous that I was flirting with someone. _Jesus, Wash!"_ He feigned putting his hand over his forehead. "I can't deal with your suffocating needs for control. My flirty spirit can't be satisfied–"

"Forget it," Wash growled, getting up from the table. "I am _not_ jealous–"

"Sure you're not! You're just red as Sarge's ass cheeks for no reason–"

Tucker wasn't sure why he didn't see it coming before Wash kicked the legs out from underneath his chair, but he _did_ feel it was still very much worth it.

He was _so_ jealous.


	57. Sarge & Simmons: Expendability

Sarge doesn't like Simmons throwing himself in front of bullets.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty-Seven: Sarge & Simmons: Expendability

He hadn't wanted on the front line – no one in their _right mind_ would have. Which was precisely why he and Grif should have expected Sarge to sign them all up for it.

Simmons hadn't really given any thought to it beyond the expected _well surely_ THIS _time it'll kill us_ , but that had become such a common passing thought for him he barely blinked.

And it was that same 'not thinking about it' spirit that had carried Red Team for so long without a death toll. And it was the same passing thought that had brought him to leap up and stand between his colonel and a stray shot.

At least, that was how Simmons remembered it later, a dysfunctioning robotic limb being taken apart by their favorite mad scientist and certified genius later.

Grif was angrily stomping off, having more than said his peace on the subject by that point, and had left a silent, brooding Sarge by Simmons' side instead as Doctor Grey hummed through her work.

Not used to Sarge's silence, Simmons cocked his head to the side as best he could from a prone position. "Uh. Sarge?"

"Captain Simmons," Sarge said – addressing Simmons by _captain_ for the first time that the maroon soldier could remember.

"Yes?"

The angry old man turned his beady eyes on Simmons and snarled, "Have you _lost your damn mind!?"_

 _"_ Uh," Simmons responded, looking back to Doctor Grey who seemed only interested in the controversy. "I'm going to say 'no'–"

"How _dare_ you waste an opportunity to throw Grif between myself and a bullet!" Sarge snapped. "You threw yourself instead!? Inconceivable! You are _far_ from the list of expendable soldiers on Red Team, Simmons. At least two places away from expendable! Both places occupied by Grif, of course."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate hearing that as much as I do, Sarge," Simmons sighed. "But… thank you. I think."


	58. Tucker & Washington: Make Me

After Charon, Wash tries to help Tucker recover from what he's lost.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty-Eight: Tucker & Washington: Make Me

"Thirty-three. Thirty-three. Thirty-three. Thirty-three. Oops. Sorry! I mean thirty-three. Thirty-three. Thirty-three–"

"Caboose!"

Looking up from the files that the UNSC had sent for them and the files for the Reds – since he more than knew better than to trust Sarge with looking into paperwork regarding himself and his men's future in the _real_ military – Washington contemplated _not_ going to the door at all and figuring out what shenanigans were unfolding outside the quarters Kimball had so graciously given them.

Then again… Wash figured that they had lucked out in recent years as far as Caboose and Tucker not killing each other and he _really_ shouldn't test the limits of their patience with each other.

Especially when Tucker had only been let off his medical restrictions by Doctor Grey a few hours ago.

Flinging the door of the barracks open, Wash looked to his men, _almost_ unsurprised to see Tucker collapsed on the ground in a groan while Caboose stood over him, head cocked curiously to the side.

Caboose's eyes widened and he pointed at Tucker. "Not my fault. Tucker did it."

"For once, Caboose, I believe you," Wash groaned, walking into the room. He pointed toward the door. "Caboose, I think it would be _very_ helpful if you could go ask Donut about your guys' armor replacements. I bet you'd like to get a new set to wear soon, wouldn't you?"

"OH YES! Great idea, Agent Washington!" Caboose cheered, taking off toward the door in a barreling run.

Tucker stayed flat on the floor, releasing aggravated grunts under his breath as he tried to push himself back up.

Wash let him flounder for a few moments before sliding his eyes shut and releasing a low sigh. "Tucker," he spoke up, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You _know_ that you're not supposed to strain yourself yet. Doctor Grey was _very_ particular about your release–"

"Yeah? Well, what do you care? I'm training. You should be happy, Wash. You finally got what you fucking wanted," Tucker said, arms shaking as he pushed himself up.

Frowning, Wash crossed his arms and shook his head. "I recall saying I wanted you to be able to take care of yourself. Right now that means knowing your limits. And that you _need to stop punishing yourself."_

Tucker gritted his teeth, looking up to Wash, sweat beaded across his face. "Oh, yeah? Come over here and make me."

Rolling his eyes, Wash strolled over, dropping into a sitting position by Tucker's quivering side. He waited a moment, watching Tucker's resumed struggle, before taking a single finger and pressing on the man's back only to watch him collapse completely on the ground under the very minor pressure.

"Agh, you fucker! No fair–"

"Tucker, I'm worried about you," Wash said in a sigh. "You've… you've been through _so much_ in the last few years. And you lost your best friend. But you need to stop punishing yourself – you need to understand that it was Epsilon's time. Being stronger wouldn't have prevented what happened. I don't know what would have."

Tucker rolled over on his back, biting on his lips as he screwed his eyes shut. "I miss him so much, Wash…"

"I know," Wash replied, reaching forward and squeezing Tucker's shoulder. "I know…"


	59. Grimmons: Counting Stars

Grimmons. Simmons is looking for Grif and finds him doing the unexpected.

 **Wondering Why We're Here  
** Chapter Fifty-Nine: Grimmons: Counting Stars

Shirking off duties was by far not a _new_ development for Grif, but Simmons still somehow found himself surprised when he showed up in the New Republic's training room to find no Orange captain in sight.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he mumbled to himself, marching around the premises.

It didn't take a genius to head toward the mess hall when searching for Grif, and likewise it didn't take Simmons long to lay eyes on his partner.

What _would_ be surprising if Simmons wasn't teetering on absolute rage was that Grif wasn't standing there stuffing his face, or laid out in the shade in a food induced coma, but rather he was looking up toward the cave ceiling, almost like he was in a trance.

"Hey _GRIF!"_ Simmons cried out as he marched. "What the fuck are you _doing!?_ We're supposed to debrief our lieutenants. Or. Something. Fuck! I don't want Kimball yelling at me again–"

"Oh, like someone yelling at us at six in the morning is something _new,"_ Grif replied with a casual wave of his hand.

"I didn't say it was _new._ I said I didn't like it," Simmons spat back, coming to a stop just by Grif. He blinked a few times, then followed Grif's gaze, looking up toward the cave's ceiling.

It wasn't _too_ surprising that there was a distant opening – there were several holes throughout the cave allowing water access. The Rebels needed as much natural light as they needed cover, both to limit the need for electric lighting and for what little cultivating they could do to live off of.

Simmons looked back at Grif expectantly. "What are you doing out here?"

"The stars are still out, Simmons," Grif announced. "If I'm going to be up at this ungodly hour – something I _still_ don't think Kimball can make us do–"

"She's the leader of the New Republic, Grif. She could also have you drawn and feathered if she wanted, I'm pretty sure," Simmons said only partially in jest.

"So," Grif continued, completely ignoring him as usual, "I figured if I was going to be up today, I would look at the stars. We _never_ get to see the stars. Not since joining the goddamn army."

"What are you talking about?" Simmons asked, scratching at the back of his head before looking up. "We're in the _space army._ We've been in space for _over a decade._ If we don't find a way home soon, I'm going to have been in space for as long as I was on Earth!"

"Yeah, but how many times have we gotten to see stars?" Grif asked pointedly. "Face it, Simmons. We've been _robbed_ of star gazing since we've known each other. First by the stupid Red Army and the planet of eternal fucking sunshine, then by shipwrecking in the middle of a jungle that was cloudy and raining every night, now by being stuck in a goddamn cave."

Simmons stared at Grif. He _hated_ when he was right.

Grif looked down, knowing smirk all too apparent on his face. "What about it, Simmons? Wanna look at the stars with me?"

With a heavy sigh, Simmons crossed his arms and settled next to Grif. "You're a terrible influence. But I appreciate it."

"Thank you, I try."

"Actually, you don't. You're the _opposite_ of trying. But it works for you," Simmons shrugged.

"That it does, Simmons. That. It. Does."


End file.
